Once Upon A Time
by Kates
Summary: Clarice is an unusual girl, even in the highly unusual time of the Renaissance in France. But when she meets up with a mysterious, masked nobleman, will her life become even more unusual?
1. Prologue

A/N:  A new story begins: a new tale must be told.  Magic and enchantment await you – this time, in the elegant heights of the High Renaissance in France…

Disclaimer/claimer:  This story will be somewhat loosely based on the tale of Rumpelstiltskin, but only _very_ loosely.  It is, however, essentialy a faery tale, and thus, I must claim all characters (all but those who are to be found in real history) as my own.  I do not own historical figures or places or events, of course, but everything else is the product of my imagination.  

_Je vous conjure pour apprécier: cher lecteur léger!_

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_Once upon a time: a long, long time ago, in a land far, far away – way across the ocean…_

_There was a magical land.  And in this magical land lived all sorts of wonderful creatures: unicorns, basilisks, dragons, winged horses known as the Pegasus, giant eagles with the gift of speech, and many, many others.  _

_But it was the people of this land were, perhaps, the most amazing.  A beautiful, tall, graceful race, they lived peacefully in this strange world – one so very different from ours – alongside the mythical creatures.  These people were known as Elves, but they are not the kind of Elves that you may expect.  No: these Elves were not tiny and comical.  They were brave and stern at times, and at others, all you could want to do around them was laugh…or smile.  All had the gift of magic, and all could become immortal, if such a blessing was bestowed upon them at the will of their Creator._

_It is of these people – the Elves – that this story will tell._

_The Elven people had been blessed with a wise and gracious king, who had a beautiful, sweet-spirited queen.  After many years of marriage, a daughter was born to them: a tiny, beautiful Elven princess…_

_And they named her…_

"_What did they name her?"_

With a look of utter helplessness in her large, vibrant green eyes, Clarice Gisèle Violette Marie Boisvert – names all given to her by her long-deceased parents, Alain and Yvette Boisvert – set down her quill pen and looked up into the stately branches of the ash tree that spread, in a wide, sheltering canopy, over her.

Then she sighed, closing her eyes.

It was a cool but pleasant, fresh morning in the lush French countryside: early in the spring, just when the green of the foliage and trees and grass had returned again after the winter's chill, along with the very earliest of the pastel blooms of various flowers.  A light, teasing breeze swept about the neat, quiet, expansive lawns of the Boisvert manor, and, every once in a while, they would pause for a moment to stir the puffy sleeves of Clarice's simple white walking gown, or to play with her luscious, ebony-black locks as they spilled innocently over her small, delicate shoulders.  

This was just the sort of day that Clarice loved: everything was silent, but for the soft sighing of the wind and the songs of the birds.  No one was about the place except for her aunt, Jacqueline, and her uncle, Felix, was away on business to Calais.  Clarice was free to be on her own, and to attempt to make some further progress on the story that she was writing.

The year was 1514, and the country, of course, was France, at its most idealistic, romantic, and _enlightened_ age.  The High Renaissance was upon most of Eastern Europe by then, and anyone who was anyone bore a passionate interest in the liberal arts, literature, society, and all of its facets.

Clarice was an orphan: her young, adventuresome parents having died of an illness when she was no more than an infant.  Upon their almost joint demise, her father's brother – Felix Boisvert – had taken her in, although it had been much against his will.

Felix had no regard for his brother's free-spirited, generous lifestyle, as he himself was a rather hard, shrewd man, and it had been his firm opinion that Alain and Yvette had died because they had been too reckless.  He had no interest in bringing up little Clarice, and so now, at sixteen years of age, the only parent she had really ever known was her timid, although sweet-tempered Aunt Jacqueline.  

But if Clarice did not 'get along well', as it was said, with her uncle, she scarcely ever had any time to experience the trials of this situation.  Felix was very often away from their home in Rouen, about his own business, leaving his wife and niece to their own means.  Together, Jacqueline and Clarice owned a shop in the nearby city, where they sold various fanciful odds and ends; music boxes, jewelry, paintings, and other little trifles were dispensed for decent prices at their hands, and their undertaking in this had always been fruitful.   

Stirring restlessly, she pursed her full, red lips together slightly and shifted position, drawing her feet up closer underneath her, moving her hand to let her chin rest upon the back of it.  Her vivid green eyes scanned gracefully, silently, over the blank pages of the book before her.

"_Once upon a time: a long, long time ago, in a land far, far away – way across the ocean…_"

The natural, windswept beauty of her surroundings should have helped to kindle her inspiration; at least, that was what she had thought a few hours earlier that morning, when she had been out her way out the kitchen door, pen and book in hand.  

But as of yet, she felt nothing but an emptiness of mind.

"_Oh_ _pour le bien du Ciel_!"

After this soft but fully frustrated outburst, Clarice sighed and leaned back against the tree dark trunk, her eyelids sliding halfway closed, so that her long, thick fringe of black lashes veiled the vibrancy of her gaze.  

Wordless and pensive, she listened to the noises around her: the wind, the rustling of the leaves, the birds.  

Her imagination was, as Aunt Jacqueline had said so often – sometimes fondly, and sometimes in exasperation – almost a being in its own right: certainly an imagination unleashed.  As far back as she could remember, she had always been in love with fanciful, extraordinary things: fairy tales that spoke of magic, far-off lands and strange creatures, princes and princesses and beautiful tales of love, revenge, danger, and intrigue.  The developments of '_La Renaissance_', as so many people had come to call the revival of the human mind, only somewhat interested her, in comparison to the effect that it had on the lives of those who surrounded her.  

To her, it seemed a bit superficial, at times.  Certainly, some of the products of the enlightened time in which she lived would surmount to something someday…but there were excesses.  And people in general could be so silly. 

Clarice was an unusual girl.

Such a statement would seem cliché indeed, but anyone who met her would come away from the audience with the distinct feeling that this was truer in her case than in anyone else's.  

Perhaps it was the way that she moved about: light of foot, graceful, and silent.  Or perhaps it was the way that she saw things, the way that she spoke and responded to situations around her, the way that she reacted to life in general: with clarity of perception, with wisdom and understanding, and, more often than not, compassion.  At sixteen – almost seventeen – years of age, she was not quite the average child of the Renaissance, although most of her young peers held the same qualities.

But _Clarice_…  

It was said, sometimes, that she was odd: that her unbridled imagination would lead her into trouble one day.  She did not often interact with her young feminine peers of Rouen.  Instead, she was mostly to be found either at home or in the shop, with her aunt.  Or out on the hillside, underneath the ash tree.

Clarice was an _artist_.  

She had seen the works of the great masters many a time in her sixteen years, and her hunger for their exquisite beauty was only suceeded by her desire to create her own works of unparalleled excellence.  Painting, drawing, writing…all were her loves.  Hours of her days were spent devoted to bringing a picture or a paragraph to life.  And what pictures and paragraphs these were!

All were fraught with fairy-tale enchantment.  Under her hand, princesses: swept up in beautiful gowns, long hair flowing and studded with jewels, came to life, as drawings, and spoke, in her stories.  Princes fought evil and triumphed gloriously.  Dragons roared, eagles spoke wisdom, and woodland sprites set their mischievous little traps for the mortal kinds.

"And yet, for all of my _previous_ work," Clarice commented acidly to herself under her breath, as she attempted to rally her poetic muses again, "I _still_ cannot think of a name to give to this Elven princess."

Well.  In the end, she would.  She had to – this story, of the most beautiful, and yet most mysterious, of all the fairy tale races, the Elves, had been living in her mind for the longest time, waiting to be written out on paper.

But she did not know the end.

And she could not think of a name.       

*                       *                       *

A/N:  It it short?  Yes. …For now.  ^_*   

I am only just getting started on the development and writing of this, because I have been under the curse of, as the French call it "_bloc de l'écrivain_", up until now.  And yes, I will be using quite a bit of French phrases here and there in this newest edition to my Travelers of Enchantment series – if I make any errors, please don't hesitate to point them out, but I beg you to be gentle!

What's this?  What is the Travelers of Enchantment Series?  Indeed.  They are to be found in my fan fic listing; I invite you to peruse them, but as for now, let us see where _this_ story goes.  Please review for me!  ^_^              


	2. The Wish

A/N:  As I left you with a rather brief beginning, I have hastened to come up with this next chapter – short, as was its predecessor, but soon I hope to have a lot more done.  *under her breath*  Just as soon as my Muse starts working with me – note, NOT _against me – once more…  *glares daggers at Elenette the Spryte, who is the self-appointed embodiment of Kates' Writing Muse* Disclaimer:  I don't own history, but everything else in this is mine.  Please enjoy, and do r&r, if you would be so very kind!   _ Chapter One – The Wish 

Hoof beats.

The sound of cantering horses – four, from what she could tell – and the voices of their riders, all masculine, drew Clarice out of her silent contemplation.  

She looked up, her green eyes instantly moving to the packed dirt road that ran down along the bottom of the hill.  

In the next moment, four sturdy steeds and their riders came galloping out from behind the screen of the trees and bushes that hid the curve of the road from view.  Clarice stood up: a straight, small, slender figure against the emerald green turf behind her, as her long black hair streamed out behind her in the wind.

Her uncle had returned.

_And, of course, she thought, as she gathered her skirts into both of her hands and made for the house as quickly as she could, __He's brought guests with him – yet again._

It was Felix's habit to invite his business associates back with him to briefly sojourn at the Boisvert residence: the modest but well-kept manor just outside Rouen's environs.  Especially if he was trying to make some sort of deal with them.

Clarice had almost reached the house, and was in the act of running across the courtyard, her slippers crunching delicately against the gravel that paved it, when the four riders came bursting into it through the gate.  Her uncle, who was at the head, noticed her just a mere split second before his horse would have run her down, and he had to pull up hard on the reins to avoid such an accident.  His horse was exhausted, foaming about the bit in its mouth, with sweat glistening at its dark sides; obviously, they had been riding for a long while.  The poor creature also seemed skittish in its fatigue, causing Felix to take several moments bringing it back under control.  

When he did, his weathered, stony face was scarlet with irritation.  He faced his niece, gray eyes flashing.

"Heavens, girl!" he exclaimed, his voice an ireful growl. "What on the blasted earth are you doing dashing pell-mell about the manor at this hour?  Inane child!  Where's your aunt?  And why hasn't she got you inside, where you belong?"

Clarice regarded him calmly, coolly, and evenly, almost aloof: her green eyes serenely yet intently taking in the scene and piercing into him in a way that Felix Boisvert found very unnerving.  

Then, she raised her chin slightly, so that she was looking up at him fully, and made her reply.

"Mme. Boisvert is inside, Uncle," she said, in the same imperturbable manner, "And I had not known that you would be arriving at this hour.  Please forgive me."

Felix only grunted in reply, eyeing her warily.  He didn't know what it was in his niece's manner – in her look, her air, her voice – at times that made him feel so uneasy, but he didn't remotely like it.  It was almost…unearthly.  Otherworldly.

"Whatever, girl." 

He waved her off, towards the house, holding the reins of his steed securely in his other hand.  

"Now, get you to your aunt and let her know that we have three distinguished merchants who will have need of rooms tonight – and we will all be needing something in the way of a meal very soon.  Now get on with you!"

He waved her off once more, but Clarice had already turned her back on him and begun to run towards the house before he had even finished his sentence.  

Before she was out of range of hearing, as she walked into the silent, cool shadows of the passageway that led inside the building, Clarice caught a snatch of the conversation that ensued as she disappeared.

"That's your niece then, eh?" One of her uncle's guests asked this; there was a dismissive snort. "Rather peculiar little thing, isn't she?"

"She's got the looks of a – oh, what d'ye call them: little winged brutes – fey, doesn't she?  Like in the stories: not quite human," rejoined another.

Rough, masculine laughter broke out at this.

Clarice felt her cheeks burn crimson with vengeful anger.

Then her uncle voice again: "Excuse her, gentlemen, if you will; she's naught but a little foundling whom my brother and his wife – Lord rest their souls," As if he really even _meant it! "Left behind some sixteen-odd years past.  My wife and I have been trying to bring her up properly, but there's something to be said for children who have normal birthparents that didn't go gallivanting all over creation before up and dying!  Well, come on then, messieurs!  Jacky and Claire'll have dinner set up for us soon enough!"_

Felix then clucked to his horse and gave it a kick to the sides, and Clarice heard all four of them ride off towards the stable.  

She slowly made her way inside, running her hand flat along the wall as she went, as if to keep her way.  As her 'birthparents', as Felix had named them, had died before she had been old enough to remember them, she couldn't really imagine how her life would have been different if they had been alive presently.  

But she knew _one thing for certain – if they __had been alive, she would have never known cruelty and rudeness and spite and callousness like that that her uncle possessed._

No one should have to know such things: no one in the world.

*                       *                       *

That was why she had turned to fairy tales, back when she had been very, very young.  In those old stories, fathers and mothers were loving and tender and kind: understanding and compassionate.  They were always willing to stand by their children, to have fun with them, to listen and interact with them, not to upbraid and scold and threaten them at whim.  In fairy tales, everyone was – inevitably – happy.

Clarice went to her room: an octagonal, wide chamber located in one of the five gables of the house, the windows of which gave a panoramic view of the land that surrounded the manor.  There, she put her book and quill pen away.

The Elven princess's name would have to wait for another day.

*                       *                       *

Jacqueline Boisvert was occupied with her embroidery hoop and canvas when Clarice came upon her in the drawing room.  The lady of the house – whose features had never been quite pretty, but were pleasant enough, even in her autumn years – looked up at the sound of the door's opening, and she smiled wanly at her niece.

"Ah, Clarice, my darling," she greeted the beauty who stood before her, "Returned so soon?  I had expected you back at a much later hour."

"I must fault my lack of poetic inspiration for my brief time away, Aunt Jacqueline." Clarice replied, smiling back at her. "But that is not why I have come to you now." 

Mme. Boisvert raised her arching eyebrows in question, and Clarice told her, "M. Boisvert has returned, and he has three gentlemen guests with him, who must be given food and lodgings as soon as we can procure them."

At this revelation, Mme. Boisvert started up, setting her needlework hastily aside, her face going pale with agitation.

"_Les cieux nous conservent!" she exclaimed, gathering her skirts in both hands and making for the door, with Clarice following gracefully in her wake. "He has come back from his trip to Calais so soon?  And with no notice?  __Nous epargner!  Come, Clarice!" And so saying, she flew like a flustered mother hen, whose feathers had been doused with cold water, down the corridor._

Clarice followed, like an obedient little chick.

Later that evening, when Felix and his companions – Mssrs. Boulanger, Montagne, and Quirion – had repaired to the lounge for stiff brandies, smoking, and a round of One and Thirty, Felix called Clarice in.  She stood patiently and silently to the side of his chair, betraying no reaction to the foul smell of pipe tobacco in the room, or the presences of the other men there.  

Finally, Felix spoke, reflectively, eyeing the ensuing card game in front of him.

"Claire, m'dear," he said, slowly and deliberately, "M. Quirion frequents Paris quite a lot throughout the year, as his is a business that deals a lot in the palace – with His Majesty, King François, and the innumerable numbers of courtiers there.  He tells me that there is to be a masque ball held a fortnight from now."

_Oh, you insidious snake._

Clarice narrowed her eyes, making them sparkle dangerous flecks of emerald.

"And you thought that perhaps Madame and I would like to join you in attending this masque ball, simply for the amusement of it?"

"Clarice." Her uncle's voice held a warning growl.

She was unafraid of him. Her indignation dispelled it.

"Forgive me, Uncle.  But I fear that I may be too young to be wedded as of tonight – and too old to be wedded by the time of this event.  We all wear our own sort of _masks, and I would feign to be a soul who does __not fear to show her own face!"_

And with that, she gathered her skirts in her hands, and swept out of the chamber, leaving her uncle speechless, and his guests staring at him: half in glee, half in shock.  She tore down the hall, up the flights of stairs, and eventually came to one of the many doors that led outside.  

Without a moment's hesitation, she pushed the door open and ran out into the dark, cool night air, dashing across the paved courtyard, onto the wet, springy grass, and out to the ash tree on the hill.  Once she was there, she fell against the tree's strong, thick trunk, and stared out to the far-stretching scenery of Rouen – of France.  

The darkness of the night seemed to mirror, exactly, the darkness of her own life at that very moment. 

Her uncle intended to drag her along to some fancy masque ball and tie her down to some sort of rich, powerful nobleman: no matter what his age, or character, did he?  Never!  Never, never, _never!  She would not consent to such treatment!  _

_No woman should!_

Burning with her incensed shock and grief, she sank down until she was sitting on the ground, her skirts tangled about her, her long, raven-like hair streaming around her shoulders and down her back.  She shivered with cold, her full lips parting.

Things were so hopeless.

In the end, her uncle would – by law and by tradition – have his way.  She could fight all she wanted, until her last ounce of strength was sapped out of her fiery-spirited being, but in the end, nothing she could do would help.  But she would do her best.

_This shouldn't happen to anyone…ever._

She lifted her head and looked up again, out to the most distance reaches of the horizon before her.  Somewhere, out in the dark, endless void…_there was hope._

"Please…I wish, just for once…I wish that a fairy tale – someone from a fairy tale – could come alive…and that they would find me…and take me away from this…Just take me away!  Please, it's all I ask…"

She let the cold, bitter tears come then.

"Just _once…__someone…"_

*                       *                       *__

   

And somewhere in the blue-black night sky…a shooting star fell… 

*                       *                       *

A/N:  In spite of the perpetual interference of forces beyond my control (siblings, and whatnot), this chapter came out, and others will soon follow.  Hopefully.  Leave it to me and Elenette…  But in the meantime, please do click on the little blue button down below and drop me a note, would you…?


	3. The Invitation

A/N: *growls*  
  
I seem to be having a bit of a problem with either this site, or my computer, because it won't upload any more than the first 22 or so words of this chapter yesterday and last night. There's a similar problem with the next one - but maybe now it's going to work for me.let's see. Sorry about the delay and whatnot.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own the Renaissance period, its people, or events (somewhat ridiculous to even think of such a thing as possible, no?) I just own this story, and the characters involved in it.  
  
Chapter Two -  
  
The Invitation  
  
  
  
In the beautiful, rolling landscape of the countryside that was northeast of the Dordogne, the Château de Hautefort was one of the many gorgeous châteaux ever to be inhabited by the nobility during the Renaissance. And it was certainly one of the most prestigious, for it had been selected to be the location of one of His Majesty's finest, most exotic, most thrilling, most expensive, and most entertaining fêtes yet.  
  
Almost anyone in any part of France in those days knew very well that King François I was willing to spare no expense when it came to the many frequent and exorbitantly lavish entertainment events that were so often held for the nobility at that time of the Renaissance. But no one could complain!  
  
Unless, of course, they happened to be a certain beautiful, artistic, ebony- haired, green-eyed young soubrette of sixteen years of age.  
  
The tall, pearly slate blue gables of le Château de Hautefort rose in the dusky, pale gold and peach sky, standing out proud and lovely against the gathering dark.  
  
Can something so beautiful be such a tomb?  
  
Clarice was an optimistic person at heart; she had dreams and a will to see them fulfilled, and a hope that almost never died. But as the carriage that was bringing the Boisvert family ever closer to the looming castle ahead, Clarice's spirits began to darken. Within a day, she thought, her uncle would have her attached inescapably to some nobleman that she didn't even know. Within a day, her life would be - in some way or another - forever changed. Within a day, all her dreams combined might not be able to save her from whatever future lay ahead in the distance.  
  
She didn't want to dread stepping out of the carriage and entering the castle - but somehow, she couldn't avoid it either.  
  
The carriage rolled to slow, heavy stop, and the footmen stepped down from their places behind. The door opened and a voice announced, "Le Château de Hautefort, monsieur and mesdames."  
  
Felix stood and climbed out first, then he handed his wife and niece down. Jacqueline instantly turned her attentions to seeing that their trunks were unloaded properly - and safely, at that - while her husband paid the carriage driver.  
  
Clarice stepped a little off to one side, pushing the silky gray-blue hood of her cloak off of her head, and onto her shoulders, gazing far up at the shimmering, cream-coloured walls of the castle that towered above her. There were so many windows: each one framed with jet-black casing, each one curtained and shadowy.  
  
"Niece!"  
  
The abrupt, irritated bark of her uncle's voice calling her name caused her to start back into reality and she whirled, turning on the castle, and ran to join her guardians, who had already begun to move towards the nearest entrance to the building. She glanced behind herself once more, after she had mounted the steps leading inside and before she had passed through the doors, which a pair of finely-liveried menservants held open for their party. The dark, rolling landscape of France met her searching gaze, and her heart ached to be as free and boundless as the tall, serene mountains in the distance.  
  
"Clarice?" came her aunt's gentle, tremulous voice. "Are you coming, dearest?"  
  
The young girl was silent for a moment, thinking over a totally different interpretation of those words: are you coming?  
  
Plans for her future or no plans for her future, she was coming.  
  
But to what.I have no idea.  
  
* * *  
  
"Quirion was right!"  
  
Felix Boisvert let go of his wife's arm for one moment, drawing both her and his niece to one side in order to let some other guests to the masquerade - all brightly and garishly costumed - pass by while they three paused in the corridor that they stood in. Jacqueline shrank up against a large, granite statue, looking quite overwhelmed with the whole situation, while Felix surveyed the scene before them.  
  
"Nothing quite like a masque ball given by His Majesty! Well, shall we then?"  
  
He took Mme. Boisvert's arm again, and, together, the green-and-gold parrot and pale columbine moved onwards down the corridor, towards the party already in progress outside. Clarice followed discreetly behind them, her green eyes taking in everything - and not missing anything.  
  
There were hundreds of people present at this masque ball, in a myriad of colourful, ostentatious, and even grotesque costumes. The castle had been decorated: its surrounding gardens and grounds hung with thousands of delicate, glowing paper lanterns in saffron and ruby, as the petals of the blooming roses, apple trees, and others cascaded onto the gravel pathways, which sparkled white in the moonlight. Every which way came the sounds of lively music, talk, and laughter, and many elegant couples performed the pavane and the galliard and the allemande upon the outdoor ballroom floor, which had been set up especially for the occasion. Nobles of every possible rank were present, from the most powerful marquis to the humblest courtier.  
  
Clarice took in the scenery around her with eyes that were wide and dark with a hungry sort of eagerness and awe. In Rouen, she had never been interested in the trifling dances and social gatherings hosted by her peers and their families - but then she had never really been given the chance, as no one had ever invited her.  
  
But here - this place - this place!  
  
It was so.indescribable. Fascinating and a-flurry with movement and colour and sound, and yet so seemingly harmonized, like a giant picture. It made her heart beat faster, thrilling with a sense of strange excitement.  
  
Shadows, be gone - tonight is a night like none other!  
  
* * *  
  
As was usual for such events, wine and other sorts of festive drink flowed in copious amounts that night - and, unfortunately, Felix Boisvert had one too many glasses of whatever wine he had gotten his hands on, thereby rendering the low-ranking courtier and businessman a bit on the tipsy side by a little before midnight. Jacqueline had long since left his side, going to sit down and converse with the other lady courtiers of her age and rank, and Clarice.well, he had no idea where Clarice had run off to.  
  
It was safe to say that he didn't really care, at the moment.  
  
As the dancing and merrymaking went on, Felix went off with a few of his familiar court cronies: men whom he had known from his earliest days at court, though hardly a one of them frequented it on a regular basis currently. Now, however, they were acting as if they were old friends with practically every person who happened to pass them by on the garden path that they sat to one side of, on the conveniently-placed marble benches that were there.  
  
Old friends - and likely new irritations.  
  
Felix raised his glass to the retreating back of a scornful duchesse and called out, "And may you have the good fortune to find a husband more attractive than that hideous monkey you've got on your face! Silly things: masks, what?" he said, turning to his companions, who laughed at his words as if they were extremely witty. Then, he sat back and drained his glass, staring at its empty bottom with a sour expression on his face.  
  
"Well, there's an end on't, what," he grumbled, disconsolately. "There's more silliness to masques as a whole, mind you, than matter. A man can't marry off his own niece without having to drag her the whole way, and then she off and disappears into lord-knows-what place."  
  
One of his friends grinned and asked, "Likely to dance with some pin-headed marquis or le grande comte?"  
  
Felix waved him off, glaring dourly at the thought of Clarice.  
  
"Well, little Miss will find that she can't indulge herself in such trifling - such goosey little things for much, for any longer. She's got to earn her keep - after my lady and I've gone and raised her proper all these long years. Earn her keep, she will. Little artist, sitting on the hill day after day, and selling her fairy scribblings to whomever'll take 'em."  
  
He shook his head and threw his glass aside; it smacked into the low wall that ran alongside the pathway and shattered instantly.  
  
"Fairies and elves - what utter nonsense!"  
  
Neither M. Boisvert nor any of his other companions noticed the slight, cool figure standing in the darkness beneath a willow tree some seven feet behind them, listening very calmly but intensely to their conversation. They did not hear the figure turn and walk quickly away either, nor footsteps as it returned, moments later. None of them had the faintest idea that they had been observed.until the figure - a quiet, solemn young courtier of medium height, dressed in a simple, unassuming pale blue silk tunic and breeches, with an unadorned white mask - cleared his throat and approached them directly. The five tipsy revelers turned to face him.  
  
"M. Felix Boisvert - of Rouen?" the noble asked, calmly.  
  
Felix eyed him warily, and then he nodded, slowly.  
  
"Aye." he replied.  
  
The courtier swept an elegant, truly aristocratic-bred bow, straightening smoothly, and informed him without further preamble, "Monsieur, his Lordship - the Count d'Auberie - would like to have an audience with you; he has given me leave to tell you that you will likely find it quite worth your while."  
  
Felix seemed as if he had been startled back into his normal character by this sudden, unprecedented invitation. He stared, eyes widening: first at the messenger, then at his comrades, then blankly out into the space ahead of himself, then back at the messenger, who was waiting - patiently - for his answer.  
  
The Count d'Auberie?  
  
M. Boisvert's reaction would have most likely mirrored that of virtually any other person in France, had they been extended such an invitation. And the answer as to why this was true was quite well known.  
  
The Count d'Auberie.  
  
By his full name, he was Erik Christian Laurent-Valeray d'Auberie, and by title, he was the lord of Le Château de Rêves* and the lands surrounding it.  
  
This was not any mere nobleman - the Count d'Auberie was known throughout France as a favored friend of the king, and his estate was nothing short of gigantic proportions. D'Auberie was wealthy: oh, so incredibly, unimaginably wealthy!  
  
Located in the rugged, ancient forests somewhere between Valence and Chambéry, the Château de Rêves was larger than most of those belonging to François himself even, and its borders extended nearly fifteen miles at their widest proximities. It was an estate holding that any given one of the nobles at the king's court would have given their eyeteeth for, and his was a position that many greatly envied.  
  
But d'Auberie himself was quite a mystery.  
  
Great as was his wealth, his castle, and his reputation as a favorite of the king, no one could ever seem to remember just when the Count had come into the court scene. And hardly anyone could even boast of having held two minutes' conversation with him! No one seemed to know of his age or his appearance, or character. However, the King seemed to think that the man was a great comrade: the ideal Renaissance man, and held him in high esteem. And so the rest of France - or the part of it that knew of and cared about the events at court - accepted this as true, and even helped to circulate his fame.  
  
But he was still quite a mystery: elusive and shadowy as the phantoms of the mind that his castle was named for.  
  
There were hundreds of rumors about him flying about at all times and in all places, made of both gossip and mere speculation.  
  
Some said that he was a notorious thief: a pirate, even, and that was how he had come upon his mass of wealth and won a powerful position at court. Others said that he had rescued the King from an accident of sorts some years before, when both had been in their early youth - yet, this was hardly credible, for the Count was rumored to be some years junior in age to His Majesty!  
  
Yet other people dismissed any thought of how he had come to be so powerful, and cared only to come up with stories about who he was now: at the present. He had been named a psychopath, a generous benefactor of the infirm, orphaned, and widowed, a wife-abuser, a recluse, a hermit, a genius.and many, many more. But much as all of France desired to know the true story behind this enigmatic man, he never gave it anything to satiate its burning curiosity.  
  
Felix was started out of his reverie by the soft, but insistent clearing of the messenger's throat. He looked up, eyes and face blank for the space of a split second, and then he finally found his voice.  
  
"The Count.d'Auberie? Oh, er, well."  
  
What could the nobleman possibly want to discuss with him? The Boisvert family had long held a modest but ample estate in the region of Rouen, but the rank of its members had never exceeded that of the lowest lord.what then.  
  
"Monsieur, I assure you - the Count wishes to speak with you because he has reason to believe that you will find it most beneficial to both yourself and your family. There is no need to fear his intentions in calling you to an audience."  
  
Felix glanced at his friends, all of who looked very ill at ease and suddenly serious indeed. Then he looked back at the messenger, who was still waiting patiently - imperturbably patient - for his answer.  
  
What will you choose - yea or nay?  
  
The voice inside of his head, so seemingly alien from his own, startled him and he shuddered. And finally, he found the will within him to reply.  
  
"No need to fear." he echoed, his voice dead and monotone. He stood. "Show me to him then, boy. Show me to him."  
  
The courtier bowed again, a subtle flash of irritation going through his usually pleasant blue eyes at the merchant's heedless and common manner - especially in referring to him, a squire at court, as a boy - although he did not allow Boisvert to see it, and briefly inclined his head in a show of acknowledgement. "If you please, monsieur.follow me." he said.  
  
And then he led Felix off, across the grass, and towards the fire-lit castle.  
  
* * *  
  
A/N: The Count d'Auberie - interesting. Oh, and by the way - if you didn't recognize the name, the Château de Hautefort is an actual castle in France; in fact, it is the place where the palace scenes in the movie Ever After: A Cinderella Story were filmed. I highly recommend your looking it up on the web.  
  
* Le Château de Rêves - the Castle of Dreams 


	4. The Question

A/N: Felix goes to meet with the surely most enigmatic nobleman at court: the Count d'Auberie. What will happen? We shall see, reader mine, we shall see.  
  
  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: The usual. *adopts John Cleese-like English accent* And now for something completely different.  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Three -  
  
The Question  
  
The young courtier silently but ceremoniously led Felix into the castle, taking him down several corridors, through a good many doorways, and up two flights of stairs to the third floor of the castle. Finally, they seemed to have reached their destination: a cavernous, completely darkened drawing room of sorts, with a vaulted ceiling and rows of leather-bound books in shelves that towered over the marble floor. The curtains about the windows were drawn, emitting only a thin, weak stream of pale moonlight into the chamber, and the coals in the fireplace were burned low: glowing ruby and tangerine.  
  
Felix stood at the door, holding his by then removed mask in two hands, feeling ill at ease and foolish. He felt eyes upon him: eyes which watched him from the darkness. His escort stepped forward, bowed gracefully, and announced, "Monsieur Felix Boisvert, milord," and with that, noiselessly disappeared.  
  
A voice came from the general vicinity of one of the tall, wing backed armchairs that had been drawn up before the fire, their backs almost completely turned on the doorway. It was the voice of the Count d'Auberie.  
  
"Ah, yes - welcome, monsieur."  
  
The Count's voice was somewhere between a high baritone and a low tenor, and it was everything that a nobleman's ought to be: cultured and elegant, with a volume of sincerity and emotion in it, velvety and musical: almost hypnotic. A voice of gold. Whether its owner was a young man or an older man, Felix could not quite yet tell.  
  
"Please," the voice of his unseen host continued, "Have a seat."  
  
A hand - or the darkened outline of a hand - emerged from the depths of the armchair and waved the merchant towards a low velvet-upholstered settee with incredible fluid grace. Felix obeyed, sitting as straight as he might had there been a ramrod up his back. There was a long pause from the shadowy figure in the armchair.  
  
Then, contemplatively, "I do not doubt that you are wondering why I have called you here tonight, monsieur."  
  
Felix hesitated, uncertain of how to begin the conversation.  
  
"Yes, Monseigneur le Comte," he finally replied.  
  
Yet another long pause.  
  
"Have you enjoyed the masque, Monsieur Boisvert?"  
  
The sudden irrelevancy of this question startled Felix, and after scrambling to recover his wits once more, he answered, nervously.  
  
"Yes, Monseigneur le Comte."  
  
"That was the intention."  
  
Those seemingly simple words somehow managed to be incredibly enigmatic. Felix couldn't comprehend where the conversation was heading - or what the Count's other intentions happened to truly be.  
  
"You have a family estate near Rouen, haven't you, monsieur?"  
  
Again, Felix was startled by the suddenness of the inquiry.  
  
"Yes, milord."  
  
A soft musing sound from the elusive Count.  
  
"And yours is a business in.?"  
  
"Cargo shipping, milord."  
  
"Ah yes - candles, silks, and other fine items from the Far East.among other things." After this, the terrible silence stepped into the room again.  
  
Then, the Count spoke once more.and his words vastly unnerved Felix.  
  
"You have.a niece, Monsieur Boisvert? Clarice Gisèle Violette Marie Boisvert, daughter to the late Alain and Yvette Boisvert?"  
  
Now what possible interest could the Count d'Auberie have in Clarice?, was the question that raced through Felix's mind. How could he know of her? If it was surprising that he had known of the Boisvert family in its entirety, how much more of a shock it was that he knew of its obviously most insignificant member - the orphaned, sixteen-year-old near-recluse of a niece! Then Felix became guarded: careful.  
  
"Yes, milord."  
  
"She.she is an artist, is she not?"  
  
There was more than a slight overtone of contemplation in the Count's mellifluous, sphinx-like voice. Felix began to say yes, for he had had the question put to him many times before, but then he stopped himself.  
  
"No." he said, abruptly; then, he laughed, trying to brush off the thought that Clarice could be anything of the sort. "What time would she have for such things, what between her schooling and running a shop with her aunt?"  
  
The Count's silence became cold: fraught with the deadly kind of iciness that pierced the heart of anyone who was in its proximity like a razor- sharp dagger. When he spoke next, his voice was low - dangerously soft, calm, and even.  
  
"You may find it in your best interests if you do not lie to me, monsieur."  
  
Felix felt his blood run cold at those words, and the tone in which they were said, but - like all archetypical merchants, hagglers, and barterers - he knew exactly what course he must now take. If the Count wanted what Felix thought he wanted.it was going to take some doing. So he adopted his most persuading manner and spoke.  
  
"Milord, please - lend me your ear now. I am a man who thinks only of his niece's benefit: his niece, the only memory left of a younger brother long dead, tragically taken from this earth in a riding accident some near seventeen years a-gone now. You can understand that, can't you.? For the sake of a dead brother, I must guard my dear, sweet little niece."  
  
"From what?"  
  
The question was pointe-blanc, without ceremony or preamble, and terse.  
  
Felix smiled slyly, as a fox would when confronting its defenseless prey, and told him, "Oh, monsieur! - from anything! I cannot simply tell you - even you, milord! - everything about her. No, I could certainly do no such thing."  
  
He shook his head, in false contrite humility and concern.  
  
The hands of the figure within the armchair before him flexed and then gripped the arms of the chair, but otherwise, the Count gave no reaction to this.  
  
"You speak as if you have already fathomed my purpose," the Count said then, his voice as blank and give-nothing as a field blanketed in untouched snow. "I called you here tonight in order to present an offer to you.and your niece."  
  
Felix's crafty grin widened even more.  
  
"Well, my lord - she is young.and the arrangement of such connections does come with a price."  
  
There, the conversation took a nasty turn. The Count stood, sweeping to his feet, and glowered in rage at the merchant who sat across the room from him.  
  
"And you thought that I would impeach my honour and that of an innocent young girl, all for the sake of illicit wrongdoing? For you to make money off of?"  
  
The question was uttered in more of a shout than a regular inquiry, and Felix became terrified. The Count was, at full height, very tall: certainly taller than anyone else he had ever seen before, and the rage in his air seemed to tingle in the air like a bolt of lightning. He opened his mouth to interject, to justify his words, but d'Auberie silenced him with a irate swipe of one arm.  
  
"Silence!"  
  
He called out to the attendants who stood at the doors, Felix now saw, through a blur of terror, "Get this sneaking, flesh-mongering scoundrel out of my sight immediately!" But there was no need for the attendants' help in this - Felix had already bolted for the door. Just as he reached it, however, he rashly decided to make one last appeal to the Count's ears.and discovered the price of doing so.  
  
"My lord, please-"  
  
The Count stepped forward, advancing towards him, incensed.  
  
"GET OUT!!!"  
  
And that was all it took.  
  
Felix fled from the room, as if all of the devils in Hades had been released from their fiery bonds and had set upon him. He didn't stop running until he somehow found his way back outside; then, he forced himself to a halt and bent over, gasping for breath and trying desperately to calm himself. Never before had any circumstance - any nightmare - given him cause for so much absolute, abject terror!  
  
Moments later, a voice hailed him: the courtier from earlier that evening.  
  
"Monsieur?"  
  
Felix started and put a hand over his wildly beating heart, immensely relieved to see that the person who now approached him was not the Count d'Auberie - bent on revenge, or worse. "Yes?" he croaked.  
  
The courtier approached and held out a small object to him.  
  
"Monsieur, you dropped this on your way out."  
  
Felix took the proffered object from the young man and looked at it: it was a miniature portrait of Jacqueline, which Clarice had painted a year or so before, giving it to her uncle as a birthday present. Because Jacqueline would have scorned him in indignant, righteous anger if he didn't appear to appreciate his niece's gift, he carried it with him always in his waistcoat pocket.  
  
"Oh.Jacky's miniature by Claire." he said, bemusedly.  
  
Suddenly, the air felt fraught with ice and menace.  
  
Felix sensed a pair of eyes burning into his skull, at the top of his head; he looked up, to a window three floors above him.  
  
And saw a tall, threatening figure staring down at him: the figure of a man dressed in a robe of crushed scarlet velvet, trimmed with gold, with a hood that had a wide, cowl-like draping over the face.which was completely hidden by a Pharaoh-like mask of pure gold. From behind it, two Hadean eyes of yellow glared down into his.  
  
The Count.  
  
The window was open.  
  
He had heard everything; he knew of Boisvert's lie.  
  
For the second time that night, Felix felt his blood run cold.  
  
And freeze.  
  
* * *  
  
A/N: And now we see rule #1 of this story - avoid making the royalty angry at all costs. R&r, if you would be so kind. 


	5. The White Rose

A/N:  Thanks again for the reviews, everyone, and I hope that this newest chapter is to your liking.  Now, on to more specific things… 

**Raal the Sword Master**: *raises eyebrows, smiles with mischief* The current description of the Count would seem to point towards a rather inhuman person, wouldn't it?  We shall see.  Felix's big mouth – definitely.  It's a major part of the story.  ^_*  Oh, and great job on finding the fairy tales in My Beauty, My Beast; did you catch Hansel and Gretel and the Princes and the Pea in there?

**Rosethorn**:  Hehehe, of course!  I love that name (and it's meaning…and the various people who have been its bearers…but that's another subject entirely, one which we do not have time for now…)

**CapturedHeart**:  Yes, you got the name right – twelve red long-stem roses for you!  Thank you for the comments, and I hope this story will continue to give you much enjoyment.  

**Cheler**: The meeting – we shall soon learn what it was about.  The Count's appearance – can't say…all I can tell you is that he very obviously doesn't want it to be seen right at that point of the story.  As for his interest in Clarice…well, it's not what Felix thought, but it is a very intense interest.  We shall soon learn… 

Disclaimer: I don't own history…the whole disclaimer thing seems a bit pointless, but oh well…on with the story.

Chapter Four – The White Rose 

The princess's name had been left blank.

_One day, not long after the joyous occasion of the infant princess's birth and christening, a band of conniving, greedy goblins came along and, when everyone else was at unawares, snatched her out of her cradle.  They took her far away from the lands of the elves, and hid her so that she could not be found._

_The King and Queen were distraught at the disappearance of their only child, and the King instantly called out every last one of his men to search out the goblins and their captive, so that she might be found before it was too late…_

_But it was for naught; the princess was simply nowhere to be found._

Goblins came in many shapes and sizes – and not all were those who wore inhuman shapes and features.  Some goblins were human.

"And some humans are goblins."

Clarice gazed at the creamy white pages of the open book that lay in her lap, at the slanting, stark black lines of her own handwriting, and the words of the story – her fairy tale – echoed bleakly through her mind: _it was too late._

When had the enmity that her uncle held for her begun?  Had it been the day that her parents had died, forcing the merchant and his wife to take in a helpless, squalling infant who was too thin and sickly to merit anything less than hours of complete attention?  Had it been when she was a young child…or more recently?  

_When had it started…_

There was a time when she could remember her uncle being kind to her: playing with her and smiling and laughing, along with her aunt…but now that she was in her adolescent years, things were different.  

Her uncle no longer saw many things to love in her, if anything at all.  Sometimes it seemed as if there was love in the family that she had come to know as her own; at others, it was the direct opposite.  Sometimes it seemed as if all her Uncle Felix saw in her was misdemeanors and flaws, which were to be reprimanded and corrected.  

And so she had begun to retreat – at first, simply from confrontations, and then from other things: from conversations, from society…_from __people._

She hadn't understood what it was that had made her uncle so angry that night after the masque ball; all she had known was that it was something that had to do with her, and that it was grievous indeed.  Felix had come storming into their quarters at the Château de Hautefort and ordered both Clarice and Jacqueline to get themselves dressed for the journey back to Rouen.  When Jacqueline had asked him why, he became even angrier and gave his order again, and when Clarice had delayed a moment longer to gather her book and drawing things together, he had taken it as a disobedience – her act of not complying to his orders the moment he gave them – and thence, the shouting had begun.  

He had railed at her, telling her that he had had a miserable time, _miserable, and that he felt as if he had had to shout at her to make her do anything ever since they had arrived at the castle.  Clarice had stood silent before him, her eyes never leaving his face, and borne the entire tirade until she could stand it no longer._

Then, and only then, had she turned away and walked quietly into her room to pack her things together in preparation for their return – as her uncle had continued to shout at her back.

And now they had returned home.  Felix had left, indefinitely, for a business trip, and the house was silent and still.

"What have I done?" Clarice murmured, as the scalding hot tears came and she put her hands to her face, letting the tears slip through her fingers and fall down, like pure crystals, onto her lap, making the black ink on the paper of her book bleed and run.

"_What did I do?" _

*                       *                       *

Later that afternoon, as the weak orange rays of the dying sun – its brightness diminished by the layer of thick, nearly impenetrable misty gray clouds that covered the sky – Clarice put on her sturdy, evergreen wool shawl and made the trek across the steep green hills of the Boisvert manor lands to the outskirts of Rouen.  She paused a moment at the crest of the high knoll that looked down to the city, her sparkling green eyes instantly seeking out – and finding – the small, quaint shop that she and her aunt Jacqueline ran together.  

_Petit Rêvasse* _was the only shop of its kind in Rouen.  Nowhere else in the city could one find such things as were sold within this little store – tiny little music boxes of hammered gold, with pale blue and deep crimson velvet linings and glass globes filled with water and delicate confetti that, when turned upside down and shaken, fell in a shimmering shower inside its clear shell.  

There, one could find hand-painted vases and carved bookends, small rugs for a lady's salon and candlestick holders detailed with roses and the figures of tiny songbirds; baskets and throws of lace and fragile, transparent tulle, winged fairy-like figurines to grace a desktop or shelf, jewelry boxes and jewelry itself, and many, many more things could all be purchased at _Petit Rêvasse._

Clarice had along with her a large leather case today, tucked securely – protectively – against her side, in the crook of one arm.  After her trip to the masque ball, she had found that she had several new drawings that she could store in the shop, as usual, until it was opportune to bring them out for sale.  Her inspirations recently had rested in the subjects of innocent, winged cherubs and flowers: mainly roses; as spring further progressed and gradually turned into summer, experience had taught her that many ardent young lovers would happen by her shop at odd hours, seeking some sort of pretty gift for their _bien-aimés chéris de dame*.  _

Experience, when put to work, was quite rewarding.

With that thought briefly crossing her mind, Clarice sighed a bit: simply because doing so felt good, squared her shoulders, and set off down the hill – a resolute businesswoman.  It wasn't often that two women were able to run a store on their own, but nothing had stood to bar them from doing so after Felix had taken out a lease on the store.  

Of course, renting the shop meant that Jacqueline and Clarice had been left to deal with the grim, unrelenting old battle-axe of a landlady, Mme. Arnaude Toussaint, who came into the shop every third Wednesday of the month – punctually, at precisely eleven o'clock in the morning – looking for all the world like a billowing storm cloud, to exact her payment.  Normally, Clarice dealt with this side of the business; Jacqueline being the timorous soul that she was, and Clarice herself having _no compunction whatsoever about facing off in a firm, knowledgeable manner with the members of her own sex._

But this day would turn out to be very different from the other days.

As soon as Clarice entered the store, just as the first large, cool raindrops of yet another spring thunderstorm began to splash down onto the cobblestones in the square outside, she felt a distinct ripple of disturbance in the shop's usually serene air of loveliness and bliss.  That premonition was only drastically heightened when she heard Mme. Toussaint's dry, caustic old voice in the main room.  

Clarice groaned inwardly, not wanting to think of having to deal with the cynical crone that day, already trying to think of what might have caused her to swoop down on them now, and went to see what was the matter, and come to her reticent, meek, wan little aunt's aid.

What she found in the next room was predictable, if irritating.

Mme. Toussaint – in all of her typical storm cloud brusqueness – stood at the counter, behind which Jacqueline shrunk, looking pale and intimidated by the much larger woman.  The landlady wore her official business garb today: meaning, her pearly gray silk gown and matching shawl, along with a gigantic, truly garish black bonnet with a preposterous black ostrich feather waving about like a sentinel's flag and beads of shining jet quivering high above her forehead with each movement she made.

Clarice stopped and stood silent in the doorway, watching and listening.

"Now, Mme. Boisvert, there are plenty other shops on this row that I sanction, all of which have made far more than you've yet to do, even in these past few months, and if I have to—"

Just then, Jacqueline caught sight of her niece standing in the doorway and her wide, petrified brown eyes lost a bit of their fear, focusing on her, which made Mme. Toussaint turn about, like a many-sailed galleon on the rolling ocean waves, and Clarice cleared her throat ever so slightly, officially and wordlessly alerting them of her presence.

"_Et un bon après-midi à vous, Madame*," she said, respectfully but firmly, coming forward, into the room, smiling coolly and in a business-like manner: as one entrepreneur does another.  "How may we help you today?"_

Mme. Toussaint regarded her imperiously from atop her ludicrous person and pursed her cow-like, painted, dark-red lips until they became a thin, tiny little heart, before saying to the sixteen-year-old, tersely, "Your shop, mademoiselle, is not bringing in the revenue that is needed for it to continue in functioning.  You have not filled this month's requirements in rent or in capital, nor the previous month's, nor the month before that."

Clarice stepped around the landlady's immense bulk and went over to store her newest drawings safely in a cupboard situated almost behind the counter, and when she straightened, she smiled again her cool, detached little smile.

"True, we have been slightly behind in our profits of late, Madame," she said reasonably, diplomatically, "But we _have_ paid our rent, in full, with interest – as always."

Mme. Toussaint breathed in, and seemed to swell like a ship's sails.

"La – well!" she exclaimed, narrowing her shrewd, beady brown eyes at the beautiful, petite young soubrette before her.  

Clarice's words and manner – no matter how respectful, polite, and rational they were – did not bode well with the woman, who had never really liked the amount of spirit and independence the girl was wont to show.  

"Now listen to me, girl," she said, raising a hand to point one thick, pudgy finger at Clarice, almost threateningly, and coming towards her, "I have the books, the records, to show this – the _Petit Rêvasse_ has, perhaps, held its own in the past, perhaps even done tolerable well.  But you have neglected of late to pay your rent."

Clarice's green eyes snapped with the incensed anger of a teenager and she fired back, pointedly, her voice sharp and accusing, "Madame, I tell you we have _not.  Such a thing as neglect on my part would be hardly excusable, as my aunt and I are the only proprietors of this store and have all the reason in the world to seek its continued well being and success in this city.  Do not therefore inform me that I have erred in my management!"_

Mme. Toussaint's eyes narrowed at Clarice's boldness.

"It seems, mademoiselle, that I have just done so!"

"And why?" was Clarice's dangerously sweet, cooing reply. "It seems to me, Madame, that the only motive anyone could have for saying such things against the word of another would be personal benefit – her own gain.  Surely, Madame Toussaint…"    

This barely-veiled accusation made the landlady _very angry._

"Unless I see an increase in the revenue that this shop brings in, Mademoiselle Boisvert," she railed, her voice becoming high-pitched and imperious, "I can see no other solution but to forego your lease and close it up!"

Now _these words and the manner in which they were uttered did not bode well with __Clarice.  _

Her already pale face becoming even more pale: a stark, white contrast against her jet-black hair and dark eyes and lips, and her delicate, petite frame shooting straight and rigid, she stepped forward, nearly trembling with righteous anger.

"Close the shop?  What valid reason could you find to do such a thing?  We have _paid, I tell you!"_

But true as these words were, it must be noted that Mme. Toussaint was a hard, shrewd woman of the most devious, conniving bourgeoisie kind: once she had set her mind on the gain of more money, she would have it, or there would be consequences to be dealt with.  And she did not like shops like _Petit Rêvasse_, which sold petty, frivolous little fancies like silken flowers and fairy-tale paintings and carved bookends, and, most of all, she did not like the strangely unnerving, almost unearthly Clarice Boisvert.

Therefore, she turned around: a storm cloud ready to do battle with a firm, unbending, fresh-bloomed white rose.

"Payment in the past be forgotten!" she hissed, pushing her face close to Clarice's as they faced each other in the center of the room. 

"Hear me now, Mademoiselle – you will _double_ the revenue of this shop and present twenty gold crowns to me personally by the end of this month, or I will close up your shop, so help me everything that is holy!"

And with that, Mme. Toussaint whirled about and left the shop, not even bothering to close the door behind her.  Clarice ran to do so, and when she had, she leaned up against it and stared, pale-faced, at her aunt.

"By the end of this month," she said.

Why was her life becoming so bleak?

*                       *                       *

Clarice Boisvert was not the type of person to just give up and submit to injustice: whatever form it came in, especially when the fact was that that injustice came from a much wealthier, much more influential, and very formidable force.  Mme. Toussaint expected that she would bow under the difficulties that arose because of her gender, rank, and situation in Rouen and cede the ownership of the shop once again to the shrewd landlady, who would – in turn – rent it out to another person, who would hopefully make more money from it than Mme. Boisvert and her high-spirited niece.  

It was true: the shop did not, perhaps, make as much money as the others that Mme. Toussaint owned, but it did bring in a modest revenue.  And Clarice had always made certain that the rent was paid punctually and neatly.

However, Mme. Toussaint had set her mind on making more money, and so she had fabricated a means to get what she wanted.  She claimed that the rent had not been fully paid, that the store was failing, and – most importantly – that a disrespectful, reclusive young nymph was running it with no restrictive jurisdiction whatsoever.

And now Clarice was faced with a new trial.

She had to somehow double the amount of money that the shop made and personally hand over twenty gold crowns to the hand of the landlady herself, all before the end of the month.  On top of this was still the threat of her uncle's 'plans' for her.

The days became weeks, and the month gradually slipped by.  

Clarice was optimistic about the whole scenario in the beginning, as was her nature.  She put out attractive, neat little signs in the front windows of the shop and left others posted all over Rouen, advertising its wares.  

This brought in several more customers…but it still wasn't enough.  Clarice's eternally optimistic spirits flagged a bit at this, but then she squared her shoulders once more and straightened herself resolutely, determined not to be bogged down by the edict of an unfair, manipulative landlady.  She steeled her spirit and mind, driving herself onward with the pure force of her heart, and set out once more with yet another plan.  This time, she put up even more alluring signs all over Rouen, announcing the reduction in price of the shop's wares.  Customers came in a steady stream in and out of the doors of the _Petit Rêvasse_, but for two days only…leaving behind them hardly any more money than the shop had had to begin with, before the sale.

She was reduced to practically living in the store, working day and night, sometimes, over the ledgers and bookkeeping, trying desperately to find a way out of this seemingly – increasingly – impossible state of affairs.

And then, it did become truly impossible.

With a heavy heart, Clarice resigned herself to fate.

Silently, one night, she took out a large sheet of paper and drew, in swooping, tall, graceful red ink: _Going-out-of-business – everything must be bought_. 

Then, with a soft, weary little sigh – the sigh of a girl who was really little more than a child – she replaced the quill pen back into its inkwell, blew out the low-burning candle that sat on the desktop beside her, and laid her head down on her folded arms, which rested on the writing desk's slanting surface.

Night fell, and the girl slept.

*                       *                       *

The warm, velvety darkness of much-welcomed sleep was gently broken as Clarice slowly awakened.  

Groggily, she lifted her head from her folded arms and then put one hand up to bemusedly massage the back of her aching neck, looking with blurred eyesight to the windows nearby.  The progress of the moon told her that it was only a few scant hours after sundown; almost time for the shop to be closed, but not quite.  She glanced at the papers on the desk before her.  "_Going-out-of-business – everything much be bought_", the cheerful red letters told her, and then she felt anything but cheerful.

She stood and looked at her surroundings, heart aching.

All was dark; the outlines of tables spilling over with delicate, fanciful little things – paintings that she herself had done in a summer's bliss, music boxes that her aunt had found in another village and bought, and silken flowers – were no more than shadows now.  All was dark…like the aspects of her own life at the moment.

_Is it even worth it to hope for fairy tales – for happily-ever-after?_

She couldn't believe otherwise.

_Even now._

She crossed into the next room, going over to the counter, and gathered up her bookkeeping things, replacing them in the cupboard along with her yet-to-be-sold drawings.  Her aunt would be expecting her home, as usual, although as of recent days, Clarice had taken to spending the night at the shop, sleeping in the little garret room on the second floor of the place.  She decided that she might as well go home.

_There's nothing else for me to do here tonight,_ she thought.

Some records of the shop's sales caught her attention then and she sat down to organize and catalog them properly, just to have it done with.  As she was doing so, however, the gentle, silver ringing of the bells that she had hung on the brass handle of the shop's front door told her that someone had just entered the place.  The shop was mostly dark by then, but she still had a few candles burning, and it was not quite yet closing time.  Clarice cleared her throat a little, to let whomever was there know that she was present as well; it was, in all likeliness, one of the usual customers: a _galant-dans-l'amour* seeking a present for his lady love._

Footsteps: booted footsteps, which told her that her guess had indeed been correct: it _was a man, clicked across the floor and then she heard the slight rustle of paper.  There was a pause in which the silence continued, and finally, her guest spoke._

"What a lovely piece of art – is it for sale?" The voice that asked this was not terribly deep, but not stringently tenor either; it was situated somewhere perfectly in the middle, and was smooth, youthful, and sincere.

Without looking up, Clarice replied, "If it is in the store, monsieur, it is for sale – we are going out of business.  Which one…"

Clarice raised her eyes from her bookkeeping briefly to see what particular piece of artwork that he was referring to, and then stared when she saw the painting that was being held aloft by the stranger, just at her eye level.

It was a half-finished illustration for her story of the Elven princess.

Embarrassed almost beyond imagination, she hastily retrieved the sketch from the hands of her guest and stammered, "Oh, well, um – er…it's not…I just…oh _crumbs."_

The last two she muttered to herself.

Finally, she looked up, towards where her companion had been, and saw a tall, dark shadow across the room, its back to her.  "Please forgive me, monsieur," she said, apologetically, "I've really no excuse for the disorganized state of things here, and that sketch is one of my own, and not worth anyone's time."

Her visitor laughed a bit, seemingly amused at that.

"Mademoiselle, you are much too self-effacing."

Clarice felt herself redden, and then he – whomever he was – changed the subject, even as she was searching for a way to do so herself.

"So, this—" A gesture in the near dark, an elegant swoop of one long arm that vaguely indicated the shop in its entirety, "All of this, is going up for sale – because your store is going out of business?  Why?"

Now at this, Clarice bit her bottom lip and hesitated.  Ordinarily, under the circumstances and especially in the last few extremely trying days, she had become slightly ruffled towards anyone who broached the subject, in question or otherwise, of the shop's imminent foreclosure.  But now…with this person, whom she didn't even know…somehow she felt as if she could talk to him – as if she wanted to.

Anonymity was a very good thing.

So she explained the whole story behind the closing of the shop, and at the end of it, her visitor – whom she still hadn't seen yet, as they were both standing in the darkness of the shop – seemed not at all surprised, and entirely not shocked by her tale.  Then, he commented, reaching out with two fingers to brush the frame of another one of her paintings, this one for sale, "You are a very talented artist, mademoiselle…but tell me…"

There was another pause, and it seemed as if he was gathering his words together, and formulating and considering what he was about to say.  Then—

"Tell me – what would it mean to you if you were able to escape all of this here, go to a place where you could have your fill of more than enough art and beauty, _and – at the very same time – be given a means to save your shop?  All within six months?"_

Clarice was stunned.

"Who exactly are you?" she whispered, incredulously, feeling her breath constrict with a queer, painful sensation within her chest, forcing her to lean back against the countertop for support.

Her guest did not tell her – not directly, at least. 

Instead, his hand materialized into the pool of light that she stood in, light emitted by the candle on the counter, and she saw a small, rectangular sheet of paper held gracefully in two of the long, slender, but strong fingers: which were gloved in fine black leather, which told her one thing: whomever it was that she now found herself dealing with, he was of some importance.  She felt slightly breathless again.

"Mademoiselle, I know of a need for a person who knows enough about art – interpretation, creation, symbolism, what-have-you – to become a colleague of a second party, both of whom will work together to unravel a rather perplexing mystery involving a set of portraits.  If you find that such a task would be to your liking, I could very easily see to it that your landlady, Mme. Toussaint, is convinced that selling this shop to you with no strings or other ties attached would be a very good idea."

"What kind of 'work' would this be?" Clarice asked.  Although her curiosity – and artistic inclinations – were piqued, she knew that she must maintain her common sense…even if she was dazzled and benumbed by the prospect of working with art _and being freed at last from Mme. Toussaint's cruel grasp._

Her companion's reply was simple.

"One of deciphering several puzzles, reading certain clues, and comprehending art to its most detailed and minute facets.  One which could prove to be something of very much interest to _you, mademoiselle."_

_Oh, and it could – it _could_!_

Clarice felt overwhelmed by the startling but enticing choice that had now been set before her.  Art…a mystery to solve…being free!  All of these seemed too delicious, too wonderful to be true.  _Can they?_  

"When could another chance like this come?" she murmured to herself, so softly that only she could hear her own words. "I have the opportunity not _only to save myself but _also_ this shop – but what assurance do I have that I will be able to accomplish this?  Failure is something that _all_ people fear…"_

Then, she looked up, towards where her guest had been…

But the shadows were empty; and the shop's front door had just clicked shut, letting a fresh breeze of the cool, springtime night air come flooding into the room, to brush against her cheek and gently stir her hair.  Clarice stood still.

And then, on the top of a table that stood nearby, she caught sight of something new – something that hadn't been there before.

A single white rose, bereft of any thorns.

There was a book that Alain and Yvette Boisvert had left, among their possessions, to their daughter before their deaths, and Clarice had kept it in her room for many years, treasuring it as her only tangible memory of her parents.  It was a book written on the meanings of flowers, illustrated with gorgeous, detailed drawings of thousands of the fair denizens of nature.

_A single white rose – innocence, secrecy, worthiness, unconditional love._

Clarice picked the rose up and held it, thoughtful.

_Purity of intent._

*                       *                       *

A/N: So…_now_ what do you think?  Things are getting *_interesting_*, no?  Please r&r!

_*  Petit Rêvasse_ – Little Daydreams  

_*  bien-aimés chéris de dame – _basically a "fair lady-love"  (it won't translate back directly, so I had to guess…)

*  _Et un bon après-midi à vous, Madame – _And a good afternoon to you, Madame.

_*  galant-dans-l'amour - _ a gallant-in-love

@{-------


	6. Dream, Defy, Escape

A/N:  New chapter – and perhaps now we, along with Clarice, will soon come face-to-face with the elusive Count d'Auberie…what will happen when that moment comes?  Only time will tell.  (But as for now, we are simply going to have to deal with the job of getting Clarice out from under her uncle's control – and out of the house!)  

Raal the Sword Master: _Was_ it the Count…or someone else entirely?  Well…what do _you_ think?  We shall soon know.  ^_*  You were right about Hansel and Gretel in the other story, and the Princess and the Pea as well.  You're the first person to have taken up my challenges (as if they _are_ challenges …) in both My Beauty, My Beast and Wings of the Heart – you win so far.  Great job at guessing my first mysterious protagonist's true identity in the latter, by the way.  Thanks for the reviews on both too!  

Rosethorn: Crown and Court Duel – welllll, yes, I have read them, and yes, the 'Purity of Intent' thing was in this fic and those books, but I think that white roses mean that either way.  Just so I don't get sued for plagiarizing, which is never my intention.  V. good books though.  I loved Shevraeth to death!  

The nitpick, is Clarice really perfect?  In the words of the Bard, "No, my profound heart!"  You'll see some of her flaws as the story progresses, including in this chapter.  Her seeming perfection stems from her diplomatic stand on things – meaning she avoids getting into arguments, making anyone mad, etc., at all costs.  As for the Fire Rose similarities…well, perhaps, but the R/J thing was in a different context, and again, I mean no copying of Mercedes Lackey's work.

Disclaimer:  The usual.  On with the story…

Chapter Five –  

Dream, Defy, Escape

"You've been asked to do _what_?"

Normally, Jacqueline Boisvert was among the meekest, quietest, most reticent human beings in existence, and certainly in France.  But right at the moment, as she stared white-faced and wide-eyed at her sixteen-year-old niece, she was anything _but_ quiet or reticent.  Clarice steeled herself for what was – inevitably – coming.

"Clarice Gisèle Violette Marie Boisvert, look at me!"

She did so.

Jacqueline pointed an almost accusing finger at the seemingly innocent, small rectangle of white paper that she held in her other hand, resting it in her lap: the insisting, relentless herald of possible dangers to come, embodied in a simple calling card.  She spoke, and her voice was taut with anger, exasperation, and fear.

"Do you mean to tell me that you actually _heard_ this – this man, or whatever he was, out on this most incongruous of offers?  Did you actually give him reason to believe that you would _remotely_ consider it?"

Clarice bit her lip – her most obvious reaction to anything, a habit that she had picked up long ago when she was worried – and was silent for a moment.

"I listened, Aunt Jacqueline."

With a groan of vexation towards her niece's latest untoward escapade, Jacqueline got to her feet and blew across the room, almost in a mind to tear the little piece of paper in her hand to shreds.  When Clarice had come home from the shop late that night, she had instantly known that something had happened; for, in the last few weeks, her niece had taken to spending the night away from the manor.  

But Jacqueline had never expected something like this!  Who _would_ have anticipated the announcement that a job offer had been made to a sixteen-year-old orphan girl of a low-ranking merchant family – a job offer entailing artistic work at the estate of the fabulously wealthy, enigmatic, and surely most powerful man at the French court, the Count d'Auberie?  

She whirled around on her niece then, eyes blazing.

"Clarice, I cannot believe this!  Do you know _nothing_ of the Count d'Auberie?"

Clarice shook her head slowly.

"No, Aunt Jacqueline."

"Child, you are playing with the literal equivalent of fire!  The Count is one of the King's favorite friends, and it is known throughout almost all France that he is, at _best_, an _eccentric_ personage!  In even merely _listening_ to this messenger's embassy, you have given the impression that you might be inclined to accede, to do as he asks.  There are _so_ many things that have been said about the Count – I do not want you becoming even remotely involved with him!  Oh, what shall we do?"

With that, Jacqueline collapsed back into her chair with a wail of despair.  Clarice remained where she was, then went to her aunt's side and knelt beside the chair.

"Aunt Jacqueline, please," she said, softly. "What has been said about this man?  Why am I not to give an answer to this offer?  What's there to panic at?"

Her aunt looked at her incredulously.

"Child…do you really _not_ know?"

And then she proceeded to tell Clarice of all the stories that surrounded the mysterious nobleman – of his doubtful past, his family and heritage of which no one knew, of his unbelievable wealth and the rumors concerning its origins, and of many, many more rumors.  The Count was powerful: his displeasure was something that was rightly to be feared.  They were now trapped – if Clarice refused his offer, their family would surely suffer.  If she agreed…

Jacqueline had no wish to send her young niece, who was barely more than a child, into the hands of some noble whom no one seemed to know anything about.

Even if he _was_ the Count d'Auberie.

*                       *                       *

Clarice was now at a crossroads.

She had no wish to disobey her aunt and respond to the Count's offer, whether negatively or in the affirmative.  The mystery surrounding the nobleman intrigued her, as did the most tantalizing offer that he had made to her.  It seemed incredibly simple – and yet she knew it _wasn't_.

Jacqueline would not let her leave the immediate grounds of the manor for days after that fateful evening, refusing to even permit her to venture out of sight, as if she thought that the Count or one of his minions would somehow suddenly appear and snatch her niece up, and spirit her away with him.  Clarice chaffed under this restraint.  She was, at heart, willing and even glad to do as her elders told her.

But not when their conditions were unreasonable.

Or just plain ridiculous.

She tried seeing from her aunt's point of view, but by the end of the week, she could no longer stand it.  The case was once again presented by its teenage advocate to the uneasy judge; and even in the midst of refusal, the young lawyer stubbornly refused to back down.  

The Count was well known – surely he would not risk scandal by putting a falsehood before her, or endangering her life for the sake of one of his whims.  The offer had stated no obligations or underhanded clauses – she would do as she had been asked, and nothing else.  Furthermore, the shop would be saved, they would be rid of Mme. Toussaint, their troubles would end therein.

Clarice was an unusual girl.

She had a very deep stubborn streak.

And in the end, Jacqueline gave her reluctant consent – a letter of consent to fulfill the Count d'Auberie's offer was sent, and a reply came not four days after that.  Clarice's acceptance was vastly appreciated; she was awaited at the Château de Rêves.

But the situation took an unexpected turn when Felix returned from his long absence the evening before Clarice was to depart.

*                       *                       *

The dinner table was very quiet.  Felix did not have much to say to either his wife or his niece after going on for quite a while about his business dealings, Jacqueline was her normal quite self, and Clarice had learned long before that she had best simply be silent in such a setting.  If she said too much, chances were that one of the words out of her mouth would either earn her a sound lecture or her uncle's anger.  Therefore, she remained silent, and – finally – she stood and excused herself.

Jacqueline was going to tell him.

As was quite apparent, neither Clarice nor her uncle had a very high regard for one another, and Clarice knew enough about him to predict one thing: Felix would never let her leave the manor, especially if he wouldn't make money off of her departure in some way.  Whether or not her acceptance of the Count's offer would raise questions in the minds of those around them, Felix would not care.

But he would never let her leave.

So she ran to her room.

As she was to be making the journey to the Count's fortress on horseback, she couldn't take many of her possessions with her.  Hastily, she packed whatever she could fit into her small canvas pack: her book with the beginnings of the Elven princess's story, her sketching paper, drawing utensils, and the books that her parents had left her as an inheritance.  She glanced at the closed door of her room then, her green eyes worried and tense.  _If Felix tried to stop her…_

Throwing her pack onto the bed nearby, she then stepped over to her wardrobe.  She was wearing a simple gray dress that day; over it went a sturdy woolen skirt and full-length coat that covered all her other clothing, and then her cloak and scarf, and gloves.  Smooth, knee-high leather boots replaced her thin-soled slippers, which would little avail her in the way of warmth once she was out in the cool nighttime air of spring, with two pairs of long woolen stockings underneath them.

_This isn't going to impress Monseigneur le Comte…_

Clarice shook her head, banishing this thought from her mind.  

Hardly anyone was inclined to pay the slightest attention to sixteen-year-old girls, especially if they were without any sort of title _and orphaned to the bargain.  However, there __was the problem of her traveling alone.  Perhaps if she tried to stay away from the main roads and made her journey mainly at night, she would go unnoticed._

Perhaps.

"I'll look like a _true_ wraith by the time this is over."

She stepped back over to the bed, scooped up her pack and slung it over one shoulder, then turned back at the door to survey the space that had been her refuge, her room, for what looked to be the last time in a very long while.  

The tall, wide-open gables of windows that filled up almost every inch of space on the walls of the room let in the clear, cold stream of moonlight, shedding both light and shadow onto every surface about.  There was her bed, with its soft, well-worn quilt and reassuring, smooth pillow, upon which her head had rested for so many thoughtful, silent nights as she had dreamed the hours away.  There was the wardrobe, with her simple, unassuming gowns within; there was the bedside table, the chest at the foot of the bed.

This had been her life.

"But no more."

At least for the next six months or so.

She turned away then – for the last time – and slipped out the door.  Her progress outdoors and to the modest stable where their five horses were kept went unmarked.  The young gelding that she had chosen for her companion on the journey had been counted as hers for a long time; he would not be missed.  His name was Archimedes and, although he was somewhat inclined to be a bit skittish, he was a good mount.  With him, she would somehow reach the Château de Rêves.

The horses stirred a bit in their stalls when the stable doors were pushed slowly and laboriously open, a small, dark figure issuing in through them.  

Archimedes started back, pulling on his rope-halter nervously, rolling his eyes so that their whites began to show, and Clarice had to quickly move to his side so that he would not take too much of a fright.  

Quieting him took her a moment or two, but in the end, she managed to finally get the horse saddled and ready to go.  She led him out of the stable and then glanced towards the house, inhaling deeply, holding her breath in apprehension.

_Now…or never._

She mounted, slinging the pack onto her shoulder blades, and gave the horse a little nudge in the sides.  Archimedes needed no great urging; he sensed from his petite mistress's air that something was going on, and that was enough – they went galloping out of the courtyard, gravel flying from beneath the horse's clipping hooves, Clarice's long, silky dark hair streaming out behind her.

By the time that Felix came dashing out the front door, shouting, "No – Clarice!  _I forbid it_!" she was almost out of hearing range, and into the night.

*                       *                       *

Mme. Adele Colbert – the chief housekeeper and head cook of the Count d'Auberie's Château de Rêves – was occupied with her embroidery work, sitting in a rocking chair in one corner of the cavernous kitchen that was part of the castle, as maids and footmen and butlers and stable-boys and many, many others swarmed around her on their own business.  

It was a typical day in the Château de Rêves; everyone was going about their normal duties, and the atmosphere was one of peace and contented quiet.  

The Count had not yet summoned her for anything that day, and so she was quite all right with staying where she was.  From time to time, she would look up and make sure that the two newest kitchen maids – Sylvie and Margot – were attending to the soup for lunch that they were supposed to be watching over the fire, instead of whispering and tittering to each other.  

Mme. Colbert was a warm, motherly woman of an age somewhere betwixt forty and fifty-five, which was surprising for that day and age.  She was married to the chief butler, M. Jean-Pierre Colbert, and together they had a family of twelve happy, pink-cheeked children ranging in age from twenty-four to five.  

This, of course, had made her a very easy-going and kind lady, but there was no excuse – to her – for wasting time gossiping and frittering about.  

Hence, she kept a good watch on the two girls.

At length, she looked up again from her sewing; this time, to check the progress of the mid-morning sun across the sky.  It was a cool, unassuming spring day, and the sky was painted in a marriage of misty gray clouds and pale orange sun, with the sharp, almost black tips of the forest trees piecing into the pastel void above themselves.  

It wasn't an unpleasant day, but it might very well turn into one, knowing the unpredictable patterns of the weather in the mountainous regions that the Château de Rêves was located in.  Mme. Colbert suppressed a shudder at the thought of being out somewhere in the forest that day, should a sudden storm come up.

And then, suddenly, there was a knock on the door that led out of the kitchen and into the gardens beyond it.  

It was a weak, almost despairing knock: a knock that sounded as if the hand that had made it was rapidly losing both strength and hope, as if that hand's owner did not honestly believe that anyone was about to hear and answer.

Mme. Colbert swiftly got up, pushing these premonitions out of her matronly, practical mind, and bustled across the room in her proper, no-nonsense way, and opened the door.  The sight that greeted her was an unsettling one.

A petite, slender girl with a wealth of thick, ebony-black hair that cascaded down her back and around her sagging shoulders, 'til it almost reached her waist, and a pair of large, startlingly green eyes that looked at her bemusedly stood there.  She was very pale, and her eyes had dark rings around them, adding to the ghastly pallor of her skin; she looked dead-tired, and her clothes were quite ragged.  Behind her, on the gravel walk, stood a sleek young gray gelding, its neck bowed and drooping.

Before Mme. Colbert could say anything, the girl spoke.  Her voice was soft and musical, and reminded the housekeeper of silver, of autumn, and smoke.

"Is this…_le Château de Rêves_?" she ventured.

Mme. Colbert nodded, gazing at her in wonder and pitying horror.  What circumstances had brought the poor child to the expansive, lonely grounds of the chateau, and in such condition?  

"Yes – yes, indeed, it is."

The girl's expression and whole demeanor seemed to relax, as if Mme. Colbert's words had just relieved her of some great, pressing burden.

"Oh – thank _goodness_."

And suddenly, she slumped forward – eyes slipping closed in a deep swoon – and all colour left her complexion.  

*                       *                       *

_I made it…I'm here._

Clarice's mind was filled with relief and then a great blank void, gray and enveloping and completely numbing.  She vaguely heard herself saying, "Oh – thank _goodness_," and then she felt herself falling…falling.

But arms – strong, encircling, masculine arms – came around her and she heard the motherly-looking housekeeper's gasp and horrified exclamation, as if from a great distance off, and then a reply—

"She's ill with exhaustion.  We must get her inside."  

And from there, she remembered nothing.  

Her mind dulled, and everything went black.

*                       *                       *

A/N:  And provided that my writer's block doesn't interfere too much, I will have a new chapter or two (or more…as some well know, I don't mess around when it comes to updates) up soon.  As for now, review and tell me what you think of things _now_.  @{--------


	7. Know, Discover, Understand

A/N:  In which we are introduced to some new characters and are given a slight education as to how the Renaissance lady's ball costume works.  (Whee!  Fun, believe me!)  And, more important, we discover something about the Count d'Auberie that has long been kept a secret…

Disclaimer:  Don't own history, own this story, so there you go.

 Chapter Six  - 

Know, Discover, Understand

_Dreams – strange, strange dreams._

"Shh; be still.  You're all right – you're safe.  Everything is all right…"

_Nightmares – horrible nightmares that didn't seem to end._

_Visions of herself, running, searching for something, always running, alongside a tall, slender young man whose face she never quite saw, yet seemed to know.  Fighting around them: seasoned warriors, people fleeing, fighting, cowering, defending, swords clanging and greedy flames roaring all about – battle.  And yet, still they searched…_

"Her fever isn't breaking…" 

"Then we must try something else."

_Searching…looking for something…looking for what? _

"You have to fight – don't give up now.  _Live_."

_Dreams – strange, strange dreams…_

And then silence.

*                       *                       *

_Where am I?_

And with that thought in her head, Clarice returned to consciousness, to reality, and let her eyelids slowly flutter open.  Her mind was far from clear; she felt as if her head had been filled with cotton swaths, and thinking was hard.  Her vision seemed cloudy as well – everything around her was dark, and where there was light, she saw nothing but white and gray blurs.  She was in a bed.  

Without thinking, she dazedly pushed off the heavy covers that had been placed over her and let her feet find the floor, standing.  She swayed and put one hand out to steady herself.  It came to rest on the broad, curving surface of a huge wooden bedpost, and the floor beneath her feet seemed to buck and roll like a ship that was caught in the middle of a terrible storm.  She placed her other hand on her head, closing her eyes and trying to will her mind to work again, to force the throbbing sensation in her temples to cease.  

But she remained disoriented and so very, very tired…

She crossed the dark room, feeling like she was traversing the empty space of some huge cavern, and felt her way along the wall that she came up against, her fingertips searching for a doorknob.  She didn't even really realize what she was doing; all she could think of was one thing—

_Where am I?_

Only a little more cognizant than a sleepwalker, she found a doorknob and twisted it, pushing its door open.  Then she found herself in an even greater void: a long, dark corridor that seemed to stretch on forever.  She drifted down it, her confusion growing with each passing moment, until it suddenly hardened into fear.  Her surroundings were completely alien to her – what was this place, and how had she gotten here?  Was this yet another horrible dream: an awful fantasy of her own mind?  

Her mind continued to pound, more and more insistently, and she gradually lost all sense of what she was doing.  She continued on her aimless, bemused walk, passing through countless rooms and corridors, going down many, many flights of steps, and then up.  

Suddenly, a huge doorway loomed before her, lit on either side with huge black candles: each had the circumference of her wrist.  They swung slowly – labouredly – open at her touch, revealing a gigantic room, lit by the glow of the moon as it looked into the place through a wall of broad, many-paned windows.

A tall figure in white stood before them, gazing out into the night.

Clarice went up to it, reaching out a hand, her fingertips moving to the figure's shoulder – there was a sudden, frightening sort of tingle in the air then, as she abruptly came back into her senses, realizing where she was and what had obviously happened, and as the figure whirled around in shock.

She came face-to-face with a horrifying specter, whose yellow eyes glared out at her from a twisted, disfigured countenance!

In that moment, she couldn't think, couldn't speak.

_All she could do was scream._

The blackness returned and she sank gratefully into it.

*                       *                       *

An interminable amount of time later, she felt herself ebbing back into consciousness – _true_ consciousness – once more, and with that feeling came the memory of her last moments before she had fainted.  The room with the windows, the figure at the window…_its face_.  All these flooded back into her mind, and guilt consumed her, for she then realized just what she had done.  

She opened her eyes quickly and began to sit up, with a gasp.  A hand that was placed with firm but gentle insistence on her shoulder prevented her from doing this, however, and she lowered her eyes to the bedspread in her lap, ashamed.

"Don't yet; you're still very weak."

She instantly recognized that voice: the man from the shop, that late night when she had stayed to put up the closing signs.  She had heard it during her sickness, along with a few others.  And she knew that this was the same man whom she had stumbled upon, in her half-awake wanderings that night.  He was the voice from the shop and her dreams – and the face from a seeming eternity before.

Clarice closed her eyes.

There was a pause; then her companion moved, leaning forward, and she felt the back of a strong, masculine hand on her forehead, checking her temperature.  

She now remembered everything: she had been ill prepared for the journey to the Count's castle, and the results of that had taken their toll on her.  She had arrived late one morning at the castle and had had only enough strength to make her way up to the kitchen doorstep and ask the shocked lady who had greeted her there if she had, indeed, found the Château de Rêves.  

From there, the memories were clipped and fleeting: she could recall bits of conversation that she had heard, the knowledge that she was in the clutches of a high fever, and the dreams that she had had.  She felt overwhelmed with guilt again.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Deft, cool fingertips came underneath her chin then, lifting it, and she let her eyes slide open again.

The face that was in front of her now was not the one that she remembered – _this_ face wore a gleaming black mask, and was entirely covered except for the lips and chin.  But the same unsettling, piercing yellow eyes, framed with a wealth of dark lashes, looked out at her from behind it.  

She gazed back into them, feeling as if she was being read, and assessed.   

He looked physically like any other that she had ever seen, excepting for, perhaps, the mask.  In spite of the fact that he was seated – in a finely upholstered chair of gilt gold and deep, regal blue velvet that had been placed next to her bed – she could easily tell that he was very tall, his build somehow managing to be both well proportioned and yet slender at the same time.  His hair, in a vivid contrast to his startling eyes, was jet-black: worn thick and longish, cropped at a point halfway down his neck so that it barely met the high white collar of his full-cut silken white shirt.  His skin was very pale, almost a ghostly shade, which seemed to indicate a life spent very much indoors.

The clothing that he wore served alone to tell her – to reaffirm what she had already guessed to be true – just who she was looking at.  The shirt, the red-and-gold brocade vest that went over it, the black breeches and boots, even the mask itself, all proclaimed the wealth and prestige of their wearer.

Who was this man?  It was obvious.

She had finally met the Count d'Auberie.

As soon as they had almost simultaneously finished their once-over of each other, the Count withdrew his hand from underneath her chin and sat back in his chair, his eyes never leaving her.  "We all have things that we regret," he said.

She was astonished yet again by the soft, almost hypnotic sound of his voice, and then panged by her awful guilt.  What did he think of her now – now that she had behaved so shamefully?  Her reaction to seeing him…seeing his face…  

_Can I ever forgive myself?_

Then she felt his eyes on her, and it seemed as if he had read her thoughts.

"Don't apologize," he told her, gently, and she could be only too certain of the pain in his voice, in those words. "It wasn't your fault."

And whether he meant her fainting at the sight of his disfigured face or the fact that his features had somehow become so mangled, she couldn't tell.  

This explained the mystery that he had kept himself enshrouded in for so long, hiding himself away while the fame of his power and wealth was spread all over the whole of France, and perhaps even the world as they knew it.  Jacqueline had told her that every time that he was seen, he was reputed to constantly wear a mask of some sort, and that this was always dismissed as a mere eccentricity, though no one had ever discovered the truth.  But he wore the mask for a reason.

She looked up and was about to speak again, but he placed one long, slender finger on her lips, effectively – and instantaneously – silencing her.  "Shh," he said, his voice a mere murmur now. "Rest now.  You've been very sick with a fever and you need your sleep.  Rest."

Whatever questions she had for him, he knew; she could tell that much.  Whether he had had to explain such things before, she had no idea.  Right at that moment, all she knew was that this man – the most enigmatic figure in all of France – had saved her from the clutches of a fever, and was now also her employer.

And so she did the only sensible thing to do.

She obeyed.

The Count d'Auberie picked up the candle that he had placed on the table beside the bed and stood, looking once again at his convalescing young charge.  Her large green eyes – startling in their brilliant, emerald-like vibrancy – were closed, her dark lashes veiling them.  He turned and left the room.

*                       *                       *

"Do you think she would enjoy attending the cotillion tonight?"

"She is a young girl, Erik – what do you _think_?"

A raised eyebrow.  

"I believe that _I_ posed a question first."

Exasperatedly, "I don't know, my lord.  I really _don't_ know."

"Hmm."

"Erik, _please_: _do_ be sensible about this.  Don't you think that you are behaving in a somewhat…well…Caesar-Augustus-like manner here?  You haven't any idea of whom this girl is, what her life was, who her friends and connections were, and yet you have somehow compelled her to come here and carry out your bidding, without the least thought to what reaction anyone else might have—"

"M. Colbert, if I may – no one will know that she is here.  I doubt that, after our first meeting, her uncle and guardian would want to spread any sort of lies about me.  Therefore, no one will learn of her being here through him, and _he_ is the only person who could give a _real_ account for her whereabouts.  No one saw her come here, and no one here will speak of it."

"And how is that supposed to reassure me, milord?"

"It is all the proof you need, monsieur, that there is no need to fear a scandal.  They cannot gossip about what they don't know."

"Perhaps.  We shall see."

In mock-offense, "My dear Jean-Pierre, you _wound_ me!  The fact that you imply first that I am behaving in a manner consistent with that of the ancient tyrants and then that I have made an erroneous judgment is hardly a matter of little importance.  Have you so little faith in me as all that?"

"No, my lord." A resigned sigh. "No."

"I had hoped for as much.  Is that the last of what we needed to discuss?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Very well then.  Oh – M. Colbert?"

"Yes, my lord?"

"Would you make sure that there are extra masks laid by, in case any of our guests tonight forget theirs?  I'd hate to have anyone feel out of place."

Amused, "But of course, my lord.  Good day, my lord."

"Good day, M. Colbert."

The tall, stately, silver-hair butler bowed and left the room, his footsteps clicking away in a steady rhythm down the silver-and-cream marble floor of the hallway that led out of the Count d'Auberie's personal chambers, and the Count turned back to the huge desk that he was seated behind.  

There, piles of papers – shipping agreements to be signed, waivers for his numerous agents, and many, many others – all sought his attention, and, some of them, signature.  It wasn't his favorite way to go through the day…but then again, he didn't really have a whole lot to enjoy in his daily life anyway, so ruing the business at hand wasn't going to help.

He would be finished soon enough, at that.

The slanting, elegant script of his name and title was affixed to the paper before him, and then he pushed it away, to lean back in his chair and gaze up at the frescoed ceiling above his head.

Jean-Pierre was like any other decent human being of that day and age – if it was at all possible, he would avoid a conflict and search out a diplomatic way to give everyone what they wanted without jeopardizing anything.  He understandably wanted to avoid a possible risk to the d'Auberie name, and had resorted to reminding his employer of the fact that bringing a young, unattached girl to the estate – and their only means of defense from gossip being that she was to work there – would almost inevitably cause some sort of reaction.  

Well, it wouldn't be the first time that the Count d'Auberie's name had been the source of talk throughout quite a few of the French circles.  It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last.

The thing that Jean-Pierre was forgetting was that d'Auberie had already thought through the whole situation, and had taken care to provide the proper precautions.  He didn't mind it if everyone was talking about him – but sometimes it would be less of an irritation if they weren't.  He could only imagine the reaction the butler would have given if he had taken the disgusting, conniving merchant Boisvert's offer!  

"And to think that we call ourselves '_enlightened_'," he commented lightly to himself, turning once more to his work.

Boisvert had gotten the wrong idea about d'Auberie's intentions towards his niece…however, now that he had seen the girl, he could easily imagine why.  Clarice Boisvert was incredibly, almost unnervingly beautiful.  Blonde hair among the ladies might have been considered quite haute monde at the time, but her ebony tresses might inspire a change in thinking.  Perhaps even turn quite a few heads.  She was certainly _not_ the typical beauty, this sixteen-year-old child.  Pale skin, huge emerald green eyes, dark hair, and a petite build – she was anything _but_ typical.  

Any other man, no matter how virtuous, might have been tempted to take Felix Boisvert up on his offer.

But not the Count d'Auberie.

_And when confronted with a…a thing like you, what woman would be even _slightly_ inclined to accept the making of such an agreement?_

Ah.  _Now_ was the time for him to bury himself in the immense pile of work that he had before himself, and then immerse himself in the details of that night's fete.  He had worn the mask too long to constantly be dragging himself up out of a depression stemming from the memory of…

_No.  I am _not_ going to think about it._

The papers in front of him suddenly seemed to become meaningless and pathetic, and he threw his quill pen down on the desktop and stood, walking over to the windows that were located in the wall behind the desk.  He placed one elbow up against the clear glass, resting his weight on it, and gazed out at the scenery outside.

Miles and miles of seemingly endless fields and then forests and then mountains met his roving eyes – all part of the expansive d'Auberie estate.  They were truly beautiful, in a wild, rugged, untamable way.  The Count d'Auberie was said to have all a man could want: wealth, power, a fantastic home, a favored place in court, talent, wit…

And he was in a cage.

"I'm getting too old for this kind of thinking."

He turned away from the window, raising one hand to rub the back of his neck and then run its fingers through his thick, almost shaggy black hair.

The party that night – yet another chance to impress the local nobility with his immense fortune and entertaining graces.  And after that, he would finally have a chance to solve the mystery that he had long puzzled over.

_She_ would be dying to know.

From what he had already seen of her, and from what he had heard, d'Auberie knew Clarice Boisvert to be just as intriguing, intelligent, and even _stubborn_ as she was beautiful.  He would certainly have his hands full when he finally revealed to her the details of her employment there.

Hopefully, she would be able to see beyond the frightening reality of his deepest, darkest secret and accept him as her partner in the endeavor.

_So I pray._

*                       *                       *__

The sun was already beginning to make its slow descent below the tree-studded horizon, making the sky into a stunning display of vibrant colours: tangerine, ruby, amethyst, gold, and midnight blue, when Clarice awakened from her long sleep.  Instantly, she raised herself up on her elbows and looked out the window, and _this_ time, she fully knew and recognized where she was.

_Oh wonders._

Her surroundings had been cloaked by darkness the first two times that she had seen them, but now, in the waning sunlight, she was able to have a good look at them.  

The room in which she now found herself was huge: with tall, fifteen-foot ceilings and a more than generous area as a whole.  She had seen a few chambers of some high-ranking ladies within her young lifetime, and had heard descriptions of those that belonged to even nobler members of society – princesses, duchesses, queens, and such – but this room almost surpassed anything that she could have imagined.  

It was all entirely decorated in gold and white, with a pure white marble floor and a gorgeous painting overhead on the high ceiling.  The bed upon which she lay was enormous: almost the size of her whole room in Rouen, and was heavily curtained with rich materials as its hangings and covers.  She could count at least six huge, down-filled pillows about her.  Also in the room were several tall shelves, all completely filled with books, a fireplace big enough to roast an ox on a spit in, and other ornate pieces of furniture and finery.

Suddenly, the room's doors swung open and she looked towards them just in time to see a pair of maids enter, accompanied by no one other than the housekeeper who had first greeted her upon her arrival to the chateau!  This merry-looking, matronly personage instantly saw that she had awakened and was surveying her surroundings, and spoke to her, smiling kindly.

"Ah, mademoiselle!  You look much improved – good!  Your fever has spent itself." She crossed the room, coming to stand beside the bed and looking down on Clarice. "I am Adele Colbert, the Count's chief housekeeper and head cook.  Welcome to _le Château de Rêves_."

Clarice hardly knew what to say.  There was so much that she wished to know…and yet, she could tell that really the only person who could tell answer any of her questions with any certainty would be the Count himself.

_Even if he ever wants to see me again._

She quickly banished her consuming sense of guilt – which still remained to plague her in spite of the Count's reassuring words from the night before – and made a reply to the housekeeper.  "I thank you, Madame."

Mme. Colbert squared her shoulders and said briskly, "Well then, my dear.  I come at the command of his Lordship, who has requested me to entreat you to join the festivities downstairs.  Tonight, he is holding yet another masque ball, and sees it as the perfect opportunity to discuss with you the terms of your time here.  Would you like to attend the ball, my lady?"

Clarice was thoroughly unused to being referred to in such respectful terms, but Mme. Colbert's motherly, warm manner banished any of her other concerns.  She nodded, stunned at the thought that the Count was extending an invitation to her, that she might attend the ball that was ensuing below.  

From the window, she could see that the gardens that surrounded the castle had been made up extravagantly for the party: lit with hundreds of jewel-toned paper lanterns and floating candles and such, other decorations hung everywhere about.  The guests were already beginning to arrive, in a steady stream of carriages and similar modes of transportation, making their way up into the castle itself.  

It was like a déjà vu of the masque ball that she had attended with her uncle and aunt – only somehow, even _finer_.  

_Ladies and gentlemen, good people of France, I give you the Count d'Auberie!_

She allowed Mme. Colbert to assist her out of bed and across the room, where the two maids were awaiting them.  A steaming bath had been pulled up before the fire, with mounds of thick, snowy white towels draped about.  

She then experienced one of the finer points of the nobility's treatment of their wealthier members: a long, luxurious bath, with hot, clean water scented by an assortment of oils and salts, the fragrance of blooming roses curling up around her in its steam.  Her hair was washed and combed out, her skin scrubbed and treated until it glowed, and the last traces of her exhaustion and sickness washed away.  By the time that she stepped out of the tub, she felt as if she had undergone a complete metamorphosis.  

But that was only the beginning.

After the bath, the _real_ work began.  Formal Renaissance finery for a lady was anything but simple!  Clarice was slipped into crisp, clean undergarments, complete with a satin shift, silk stockings, numerous petticoats, and a corset shaped with bone, bejeweled dancing slippers of gold and white satin, and then the two maids went to work on her masses of thick, raven-like hair.  

Within a quarter of an hour, they had sculpted their charge's mane into an ornate, jewel-and-flower-studded work of art, piled on top of her head, pinned, and curled.  

Clarice was afraid to move her head, for fear that she might dislodge some part of the heavy contrivance.

Then, only after her face had been powdered with some sort of sparkling, translucent dust, her cheeks and lips accented with rouge, and her eyes made even more vibrant and mesmerizing by the addition of some black paint, like to that the queens of Egypt had worn in ancient times, she was shown her gown.

What a gown it was.

The finest ladies of the nobility had long been at war with each other to procure the most fashionable, most expensive, most dazzling and completely beautiful attire – and this gown left them all far behind.  It gave the phrase 'cloth-of-gold' a whole new meaning.  Layer upon layer of delicate, shimmering gold satin, embroidered with gold and diamonds and pearls, draped around Clarice's figure: arraying her in a glowing aura like that of an enchanting goddess.  With a large amount of gem-laden jewelry, the gown's flaring, sheer sleeves glided effortlessly over her soft young skin: a vivid contrast with the ebony of her hair, the emerald of her eyes, and the crimson of her cheeks and lips.  Mme. Colbert and her companions stood back and surveyed their work.  

Then, Mme. Colbert nodded and announced, brisk but – it had to be said – inwardly proud, "Well, my dear – you look quite suited to go to the ball now.  Your mask." 

And she handed the slender, golden item to its new mistress, making a slight curtsey; with the indulgent smile of a fond mother, "All right, go on now; there's no sense in waiting about for anything else when you're all done up as lovely as you are now, with a ball waiting for you.  Go on – shoo!"

Clarice gathered her voluminous skirts in her hands and, smiling, gave the housekeeper a quick little kiss on the cheek, in a show of her already-great affection.  Mme. Colbert smiled and hugged her: gently, however, so as not to crush the enchanting golden costume, then shooed her out the door.

Heart beginning to beat with a more rapid pace, excitement fluttering within her chest and making her cheeks flush, eyes sparkling, Clarice made her way down the hall, following the sounds of the ensuing party…

*                       *                       *__

   

A/N:  Next chapter…


	8. Discuss, Reveal, Begin

A/N:  Nothing much to say right now, except for please r&r.  Enjoy! 

Disclaimer:  I do not own history.  (As is obvious…)  I just write about it.

Chapter Seven  - 

Discuss, Reveal, Begin

A sea of masked faces and glittering costumes greeted the young girl as she stepped out of the corridor and onto the terrace that overlooked the ballroom.  There were surely hundreds of people there: all noble, all titled and intelligent, and all quite her exact opposites in both heritage and importance.  

It was thus, then, that she inconspicuously made her way down the staircase that fronted the ballroom, lifting the swelling skirts of her lavish golden gown out of the way of her bejeweled slippers so that she would not trip.  With her pretty little mask raised to her face, obscuring her lovely features just enough to lend an alluring sort of mystery as to her identity, she looked like any other lady of the court that was there that night.  

The steward who was taking the invitations of the distinguished and illustrious guests at the door, announcing them as they came in, seemed to know that Clarice was already meant to have been there: regardless of whether she bore an invitation or not.  As she cast an uncertain, tentative glance in his direction – concerned that, although her presence there had been at the Count's behest, she would not be allowed to attend the event – he gave her a deferential, courteous, slight inclination of the head, and then turned back to the marquis and his wife who had just entered.  

Clarice didn't allow surprise to sink in at this.  Clearly, the Count had made it known that she was to be present that night.

As she made her way across the room, skirting its edges and keeping hesitantly to the shadows shed by the long line of marble pillars that were there, notice was taken of the beautiful, pale maiden with the dazzling golden gown and ebony hair by several of the nobles in attendance.  However, they more looked in marvel at her beauty than in speculation of her name, title, and origins, and when she had gone, the mention of what a lovely creature she had been lingered but for a moment only on the tongues of her observers.  And then the subject of the conversation turned elsewhere.

The ball that night was not a dinner affair: therefore, to satiate the palates of the hundreds of guests, a long, wide table had been set up in the banquet hall.  A gigantic linen tablecloth of epic starched whiteness had been drapped over it, and then been loaded with all manner of delectable hors d'oeuvres, each fit to suit every manner of taste represented there.  Garlands of fresh, almost lacy white flowers – surely plucked from the gardens that very afternoon, in all their innocent newness of spring – foamed about the tabletop, coupled with huge lilies with blooms the size of goblets and taper candles that towered over all, scenting the air with a vanilla-like fragrance.

Clarice approached this display in awe, staring at it until she felt that people might be beginning to gawk at the size of her incredulous eyes.

Never before had she seen such a display.

Such wealth – such opulence and huge, heedless beauty – surrounded her…it was as if, in leaving her former home, she had entered another, entirely new world.

But whether she belonged in that world or not, she had yet to learn.

No one paid any exceptional attention to her as she moved to the table and filled a plate with a few samples of the food that was being offered that evening.  Just after she had selected a crystal flute of some pale, effervescent wine and was moving away from the table, she heard someone say, in a low voice, "Mademoiselle."

She turned and looked to see who it was that had hailed her, and smiled when she saw that it was Mme. Colbert.  The housekeeper smiled at her in turn and approached, then told her, "Mademoiselle, I come with a word for you from the Count – he implores your forgiveness, for he must ask if you greatly mind missing a few moments of your time in these festivities, to join him for a brief audience in the winter garden."

Clarice was surprised yet again.  He wanted to see her – so soon?

A slight, almost worried line appearing between her dark eyebrows, she inquired, masking her emotions, "The winter garden?"

Mme. Colbert nodded, calmly.

"Yes.  Would you have me show you there myself?  With all of these people about tonight, it would be a simple matter to lose yourself in this great cavern's halls."

Eyes sparkling, Clarice smiled in bright merriment: feeling her spirits uplifted by the older woman's genuine, honest warmth and friendliness.  

"I thank you, Madame; but no, I shall do very well myself.  _Jusqu'à ce que nous rencontrons après, alors_*."

"_Oui, jusque-là, mon cher*." Mme. Colbert replied, and then she turned and bustled off, presumably to continue her duties at the fete.  _

Clarice remained where she was a moment longer, standing still and pensive.  Her first encounter with her new employer had been less than pleasant, more towards distasteful, in lieu of her own behavior, and the conversation that they had held the night before was less than adequate when it came to the thousands of questions that had been seething in her mind for so long now.  As things currently rested, she not only owed him her life – at the very least, her health – but also her time.  Could anyone question that?

She certainly couldn't.

And so, leaving her untasted plate and glass behind her, she swept off in the general direction of the large, glass-domed out-lying wing of the Count's chateau, in hopes that it was, indeed, the aforementioned winter garden.

*                       *                       *

When she had finally reached her destination, Clarice was once again set at awe by the sight that met her eyes.  A huge, curving dome made entirely of glass and twisted silver iron loomed above her, allowing anyone who stood below it a sweeping view of the gorgeous colours in the sunset sky.  Within this place was a seeming miniature forest of sorts, complete with small trees, bushes, flowers, and all other sorts of growing entities.  The fragrance of the blooming flowers was intoxicating, so thick did it hang in the air.  

Clarice took a deep breath, closing her eyes.  

The colours here were so vivid: they almost rivaled the palette of the sky, and the blossoms upon which they rested were surely larger than any she had ever before seen.  A winding, pure white path of sparkling granite wound through the sheltered garden, up and around a curve, until it drifted out of sight.  It was like…it was like a paradise.

Suddenly, she heard someone take a step behind her, making her aware of the presence of another person.  She felt a peculiar, prickling – but not all unpleasant – sensation at the back of her neck, sensing that someone's eyes had focused on her: in amusement and delight, it seemed, oddly enough.

"I always thought that a garden at twilight were an ideal meeting place – they seem so much more, well – non-threatening, don't you think?"

And Clarice found herself compelled inwardly to turn around and face her companion.  

The Count d'Auberie: tall, masculine, and utterly devastating in his handsome masque costume, stood there on the path behind her.  Tonight, his face all but hidden by a smooth, gleaming white mask with yellow and black lining its eye-spaces, perfectly matching the white and gold of his magnificent attire.  His startling eyes, as he looked upon her, were reassuring in their depth of delighted warmth: the corners of his mouth turning up ever so slightly in what she was now sure was amusement.  And so Clarice smiled coolly back, returning his expression, as she sank down to the cool pathway in a profound, swelling curtsey, lowering her eyes in respect.

"_Bon soir, monseigneur – vous voyez votre bonne avant vous, à votre service*__.  And in your considerable debt," she added in a tone that was only half-jesting._

The Count's curve of the lips grew into a grin, revealing a dazzling white, incredibly straight set of teeth, and he laughed shortly at that.

"I see that formality _will_ be preserved here – well then.  You are an unusual patient, Mademoiselle…and one that I think I will not soon forget.  But, come: I must take the lead and maintain convention.  _If_ I may be allowed to introduce myself." 

His eyes matched the sparkle of hers then, and Clarice felt her smile widen.  He was most certainly an incredibly wealthy and powerful nobleman at court, but he was just as human as she.  Certainly not the unapproachable, arrogant tyrant that some men of his element could be.  The Count extended his hand to her, raising her to her feet, and they faced one another on the path.

"I am Erik Christian Laurent-Valeray d'Auberie, the Count d'Auberie of _le Château de Rêves.  And I make you a most heartfelt welcome to my home, m'lady."_

Clarice unwittingly started at the use of that term in her regard.  Being brought up as a middle-class and very much _untitled_ orphan had done much to shape her mind in regard to her station in life – and what it was _not_ commonly mistaken as.

The Count quite obviously noticed her reaction to his words, and he inquired, gravely, although his eyes still reflected his true emotions, "You are surprised at something, Mademoiselle?"

Well, now there was no way out of it – no making of excuses.  Clarice felt herself turn a furious, burning crimson and quickly looked away.

"You have some amount of title in your blood, do you not?"

That question was asked so soon after its predecessor that she had no chance to speak, and was then forced to make a reply.

"My lord, I am a ward taken in by mere generosity and brought up by kind benefactors; whatever title I may have been born into was stripped by the deaths of those who parented me.  I cannot mislead anyone to believe that I am worthy of the title 'lady'; for, my lord, I am no courtier."

The Count made a knowing, musing noise, and then she felt his fingertips curling underneath her chin again, turning her head so that she looked back at him again.  She looked into his yellow eyes without recoiling from their unnerving abnormality as he then scrutinized her, carefully and thoroughly, as he had the night before.  Then he released her and stood back, a thoughtful expression on the visible parts of his face.

_His face…_

_No!_ she railed at herself.  _I will not think of that!  It was shameful – you are shameful, and should be disgraced for the stupid little brat that you are!  Fainting like that…it is a wonder indeed that he speaks to you now._

"Perhaps not in previous times, Mademoiselle," the Count then commented. "But now you are a member of this house, more a partner than anything else in this undertaking that I have requested your aid in – and therefore, you are a lady." He paused a beat, and then added, wryly, revealing his regard of other such entities, "And know this, Mademoiselle, and never forget – there are _two ways of defining the term 'lady'…one of which only a __few can attest to being."_

Clarice smiled in spite of herself and curtsied again.

"My lord."

D'Auberie regarded her for another moment after that when she had stood straight again, her elegant golden gown falling into place about her, and then he made a motion towards the gardens with a fluidly graceful movement of one arm.  

"Mademoiselle, perhaps you would find it better to your liking if we do not tarry here; there are many other more suitable places in this garden, apt for the tastes of a newly-arrived guest, that we may carry on our conference within.  Will you come?"

He glanced at her, partway out of the corner of his eyes, and Clarice felt something very strange stir within her.  She was so small, so young and naïve and utterly without meaning in comparison to this man – at least in the eyes of all others – and yet he treated her as an equal, and a human being, worthy of the same respect that she had rendered him.  She suddenly noticed that he had extended his arm to her, and was patiently waiting for her reply.

"Nothing would be more to my pleasure, milord!" she replied, a bright smile lighting her lovely young face, and the Count returned the smile, winding her arm through his.  He was an alarming lot taller than her, but she felt somehow both graceful and important – sheltered – at his side.  

With that, he led her off into the garden, showing her to a lovely alcove in which a bubbling fountain sang its sweet music and the dusky pink roses nodded their velvety heads to the tune.  Gallantly, he escorted her to a curving marble bench and then, turning, gave orders – to a troupe of finely attired servants whom she had not seen before – to have dinner brought for the lady.

When this was done, a table set before Clarice and her companion, she noticed that a place had not been set for him.  

"I have already eaten; thank you, milady," he said, comprehending her glance, and smiled. "Please – take your fill and enjoy yourself.  I wait upon your leisure.  _Then_ we shall talk."

He gave her another encouraging smile and gestured that she should eat, which Clarice could not find it in her heart to disobey.  Her sickness had long denied her of any food, or appetite, but now that she was healthy again, she was quite famished.  The Count sat back and watched her, conversing with her every once in a while, until her plate was empty.  The servants returned – at the flick of his wrist – and whisked everything off, leaving them alone once more.

Only then did the Count lean towards her.

"And now, milady – I believe that I mentioned to you something about a desperate need for your artistic talents…?"

*                       *                       *

"Like with all proper stories, I suppose that I should begin this one with _'Once upon a time'." A pause. "So…"_

'Once upon a time, there were two families whose homes were within sight of one another.  Now, for some odd reason, these two groups had marked trials in getting along with one another, and eventually, a full-scale feud broke out between them.  In the midst of it, a precious possession was stolen from one of the families by their opponents.  The thieves took this rare artifact – an enormous gemstone of unbelievable beauty and worth – and hid it from those who owned it, and in the long years that passed after the incident, both of the families have disappeared almost into oblivion, and the jewel remains hidden.

However, it has since been discovered that the thieves left a sort of map behind themselves, as a means of finding their way back to the jewel's hiding place…'

"And hence, I have great need of your abilities in the realms of art, its creation, and interpretation."

With these words to end his story, the Count stood and gestured for her to rise and follow him.  With great puzzlement and – more intensely – excitement flooding her mind, Clarice did so.  He led her through the garden paths and back into the chateau, showing her down more corridors, up more stairways, and through more doors than she could remember, until her mind began to blur.  Finally, they stood before a pair of gigantic doors, and there, the Count turned to her, his yellow eyes seeking hers.

"I do not hesitate to tell you that this will be a task that only someone like you could possibly imagine: you, with your incredible grasp of the arcane, the mythical, the fantasy and esoteric.  For, Mademoiselle Boisvert, I now set before you a puzzle that only an artist could possibly unravel."

He put one hand on one of the doors that they stood in front of, pushing it open.  Clarice suddenly found herself looking straight into yet another gigantic room: a library of sorts…at the center of which stood a very large, and truly bizarre framed painting.  She couldn't quite tell what it pictured, but it hardly took any effort to see that it had an incredible amount of movement, life, and colour in it: all depicting a detailed scene.

When she could tear her eyes from the painting, she looked at the Count.  

If his eyebrows had been visible, she would have seen him raise one, the corresponding side of his mouth quirking a bit; but even with the mask present to obscure his expression, she could tell what it was now.  

"A painting."

He stepped into the room, crossing the floor until he came to stand by the piece of art, which was propped up on a polished wooden easel.  Clarice hesitated at the door for a split second longer, and then followed him.  When she was standing on the opposite side of the huge painting from him, she looked first at the picture, and then at him.

"You've hit upon't, Mademoiselle," he said, seeing that she had guessed what the picture had to do with the mystery of the pilfered jewel. "The thieves left clues within this painting, which – when put together – lead to the location of a second painting, and thence on to another, and another…"

"And another and another, until there are no more portraits, but the gem." Clarice finished for him.  She gazed at the painting, seeming calm, and almost emotionless.

But inside, her heart was beating with a passion, a wild frenzy, that she had never experienced before.  Art!  A mystery involving art – her one love in all life!  She could have imagined quite a few things that this employment might have entailed...but nothing so amazing, so utterly tantalizing and impossible to resist, as this!

She felt his eyes on her again, and looked back up to him.

"When shall I begin, milord?"

He regarded her evenly, with an unreadable sparkle in his eyes.

"Good girl," he said.

Just then, before she could say anything else, ask him any more of her questions, a huge clock nearby began to gong, its noise resounding throughout the air in the room, as others began to go off about the rest of the castle.  Both Clarice and the Count d'Auberie looked up, the enchanting possibilities of the moment – of solving the age-old mystery – broken like a spell.  Half-past eleven.  She had no idea it had become so late.

Beside her, the Count stirred – almost restlessly.

"Well," said he. "I should take my leave of you and hasten to bid good-bye to my guests." Clarice was disconcerted by this: he was saying farewell to his guests, and so early?  As if reading her thoughts, yet again, he smiled softly: sadly, it seemed, and said, "The unmasking takes place at midnight.  I find it best to take myself off by then."

Clarice's guilt slammed into her, full-tilt, once more.

He took her hand and squeezed it, gently, warmly, and then said, "After all the difficulties you had in coming here, I hope that you will find reward in this once it is done – so I hope, and so I pray.  I cannot thank you enough."

"Nor can I thank you enough, milord," she replied, softly. "Only—"

"Milady, please," he interrupted. "No."

There was a long, long pause.  Then the Count smiled, but there was some emotion that clouded his features – his eyes, which were the only things that served to tell her what his feelings truly were, since all else was hidden by the mask – and did not allow her to believe that he was smiling out of mirth.

"Good night, m'lady."

He turned and walked off.

"Good night!" Clarice called after him.

The tall, still-enigmatic figure of the masked Count d'Auberie paused at the doorway, one gloved hand moving to briefly rest on its frame, head and shoulders bowing.  Then, he stirred and was gone.  When she was alone, Clarice whirled around and stared at the painting, suddenly unnerved by the picture that she saw within it.  

And then she gathered her voluminous skirts in both hands and ran.

*                       *                       *

A/N:  So…what do you think?  Monsieur le Comte isn't quite such an awful person as he came out to be at first…but what will happen next?  We shall soon see…

*  _Jusqu'à ce que nous rencontrons après, alors_ – Until we next meet, then.

*  _Oui, jusque-là, mon cher_ – Yes, until then, my dear.

*  _Bon soir, monseigneur – vous voyez votre bonne avant vous, à votre service_ – Good evening, my lord – you see your maid before you, at your service.


	9. A Discussion

A/N:  Another update, with some further developments to the plot.  Things are moving slowly with this story so far, but soon things will begin happening.  Picture this: a duel at Windsor Castle, the beginnings of a sinister plot, a visit to the court at Venice (or perhaps Milan – who knows?), and, oh my, could it be?  Perhaps a romantic interest?  Hmm… 

Oh, and PS: the year has now been changed to 1530.  The reasons for this will be apparent in the coming chapters.  I had to make an adjustment to the year because I couldn't manipulate history.  ^_*

PPS:  In regard to the Count's name…perhaps.  There do seem to be some similarities – but other than that, I just love the name Erik, and its meaning.  As to the story behind his disfigurement: it will be explained soon.  I have it all planned out, so let's just hope I can get around to writing it down soon!  As to who owns Vidanric of the Court and Crown Duels: can't we share?  I'm sure Meliara won't mind…heck, we don't even have to tell her.  *hehehe*

Disclaimer: The same as the chapter before this, and the chapter before that, and so on…  Let's just get on with the story, shall we?  So, once upon a time…

Chapter Eight  - 

A Discussion 

It is always hard to sleep when one has something very pressing on one's mind; Clarice Boisvert found slumber exceptionally hard to come by that night, even with the luxurious comfort of the mounds of goose-down pillows and silk covers that were on her bed.  By the time that two o'clock in the morning came around, she had decided that she might as well liken herself to a five-year-old waiting for Christmas morning.

But, finally, morning did manage to come, and she was up and bouncing out of her bed just as the first rays of the sun began to peak over the tree-lined horizon, finding their way in through the tall windows in her room.  

She ran across the room, bare feet slapping against the smooth marble floor, to the dressing room that she had discovered the night before.  Inside of it were several enormous armoires, but she hadn't gotten up the nerve to look at their contents yet – how was she to know whom they might belong to, and what kind of trouble might she get in for such seeming presumption?  

However, her normal clothes were there as well, draped over the back of the vanity table's accompanying chair: pressed and cleaned until they appeared quite new, certainly not as worn and wrinkled as she had last seen them.  Clarice dressed quickly and put on her slippers, glancing once – and very wistfully indeed – at the beautiful, golden ball gown that she had left hung up on the wooden clothes-figure that was provided there as well.  She had never worn such a lovely gown…she had never even _seen_ something so beautiful…and now, she might as well cherish the memory.

Because an experience like that wasn't going to happen again very soon.

Although she could fantasize otherwise.

She left the dressing room then, closing its door softly behind her, and returned into the main bedchamber.  There, she found a brush in the drawer of one of the tables and ran it through her ebony-black hair, slowly and thoughtfully, as her green eyes gazed out the windows at the glorious beginnings of the sunrise beyond.  Life was stirring in the castle: servants were awakening and starting to go about their routine duties, preparing for yet another day.  And – namely – breakfast.

That thought gave her quite ample reason to finish with her morning preparations.  She stepped across the room to the washstand that was in the corner and splashed her face with the cold water from the basin of gleaming silver, then dried off with the towel that hung beside it, feeling as if she had just been completely jolted awake.

And then she turned briskly on her heel and left the room.

Mme. Colbert was surprised – more like shocked, it seemed – when Clarice entered the kitchen and bade her good morning.  

_Probably because most of the ladies who've been around here don't rise until after the good and proper, and dare-I-say _decent_, hour of noon,_ she thought, the left side of her mouth quirking a bit in a cool, dry little smile.  But thinking of that led her to thoughts of her own – just how many ladies had been long-time residents of the Château de Rêves?  Had the Count ever been married?  The mask that he wore made him seem elusive enough, but his age was even more of a mystery to her.  He neither acted nor spoke as if he was any particular age, and his appearance – or what she could see of it – reflected no certain stage of life.  He was older than her, that much she could tell…

_And exactly _why_ do I find myself wondering about my current employer's past experiences in love – or marriage, for that matter?_

These thoughts took place in less than a fleeting moment, and then Mme. Colbert had straightened from tending to some sort of simmering pot over the fire: stewed fruit, from what she could tell, and was wiping her hands on her crisp white apron as she replied, "Good morning, Mademoiselle.  I trust that you have slept well?"

Clarice smiled all the more, her green eyes sparkling.

"And good morning to you, Madame – but I must confess I did _not_ sleep well last night, so great was my anticipation at the coming day's activities!  But it is no matter: I am glad to be awake, so I may greet the morning properly."

"Well," said the housekeeper, in almost a dry tone, as she turned back to the fireplace, "You'll turn quite a few heads being up and about at this hour, I'll wager.  Breakfast for the help here isn't held until about eight, and the Count…well, he takes his meals at odd hours, I've learned.  That's why I never try to schedule a grand affair in the dining hall anymore – he keeps mostly to himself when it comes to eating."

Something in her air told Clarice what she wasn't saying all she knew, for the sake of decency towards the nobleman.  Forbearing to question on this further – since she already knew the most obvious reasons behind it – she nodded simply and spoke.

"Well.  I'll take myself off then…eight o'clock, is it?"

Mme. Colbert nodded.

"Yes – Mademoiselle?"

Clarice turned at the door as this was called after her.  Mme. Colbert left the breakfast preparations and crossed the room, lowering her voice to an almost conspiratorial tone as she looked over the girl's attire.  "My dear," she said, clucking like a motherly old hen, "Didn't you find any of the clothing in your wardrobes to your tastes?  Surely, there must have been…"

She trailed off, seeing the blank look that hung on Clarice's pretty young face; then, she began to scowl and bustled off, speaking as she went, "Ohhh, I cannot _believe_ him!  For all of his years and court experience, he _still_ can't remember a simple thing like – ohhhh!", and so on.  Clarice followed after her, plaintive in her confusion and surprise.

"You mean – the clothing in the dressing room…?"

"Is for you!" Mme. Colbert retorted, in a huff. "He had it all brought in especially for your use while you are here working with him on whatever project he's got going this time around, and I cannot believe that mentioning it slipped his mind!"

Clarice halted in her tracks, the blank look on her face turning into wry skepticism and self-effacing ridicule.

_Well, that explains the perfect fit of that gown from last night!_

Meanwhile, Mme. Colbert continued, still rampaging in her indignant ire towards her employer, the Count, "And all _this_, after he went and made you find your own way here, without anyone or anything to help you but a name and a general idea of the location – with not only your reputation but your health _and_ safety at stake!  He certainly deserved all the worry he went through when you came in sick!"

By now, Clarice could very easily guess Mme. Colbert's relationship with the Count: somewhat that of a mother who loves her child very much but becomes exasperated with him at intervals.  She certainly didn't seem to have any compunction about confronting d'Auberie with his apparent forgetfulness.

She gestured to one of the kitchen maids who stood nearby, watching the whole scene in a mixture of appalled shock and fixated interest, indicating that she was leaving and not to bother the housekeeper.  The maid started and made a choking sound; whether it was caused by laughter or by fear, she didn't stay to find out.

The corridor that led out of the kitchen went in two directions: one, presumably towards the exit to the gardens, stable, and the rest of the grounds of the estate, and the other further into the interior of the house.  

Clarice chose the latter of the two, wishing to do some exploring in what was now to be her home – for six months, at least.  

The rooms that she saw were all gigantic, with tall ceilings and broad floors: no two were alike, and yet, in their variety, none seemed to clash.  She saw beautiful, ornate furniture and décor, gorgeous sculptures and paintings and tapestries, but very few of the servants, who seemed to keep largely to themselves and their duties.  After somewhere around a half an hour of sightseeing, she found a door – built into a floor-to-ceiling-length window – that led out into a spectacular bit of garden, and went outside.

It was a cool, serene spring morning: pale and delicate, with bursts of gleaming golden sun showing through over the castle's slanting roof of slate and the myriad of colours in the gardens.  There was a scent of dew on the air: fresh and quite wet, as she found when she stepped into the dark grass – the hem of her simple, full-cut gray wool skirt was soon liberally coated.  She could also detect the faintest traces of thyme and tuberose when there was a breeze whisking about.  It was beautifully refreshing.

She took the white gravel path that led further into the gardens and was treated to even more of the castle's profoundly lovely sights.  A quarter of an hour passed before she had even realized it, and it was only when a clock somewhere in the gardens began to chime the hour that she recalled her earlier intentions.  She found her way back inside and continued on her walk, finally managing to find her way back to the library that the Count had showed to her the night before.  

All was silent within: the rows and rows of majestic, solemn leather-bound books looking down on her like an entire assembly of university professors.  Clarice smiled, closing the door behind her.  Books and art – her greatest passions.

_And here, in this place, I am surrounded by them._

The painting was still there, just as it had been the night before.  

Hesitantly, she approached it, and then stood before it, unmoving, as her eyes roamed over it.  Looking at it as a casual observer – and not as a potential solver of its mysteries – she would have simply made the comment that it was very detailed and colourful.  

The scene that had been painted onto the canvas was that of, predictably, a royal ball.  Two dancers – the man garbed entirely in black, costumed as Death, and the woman in a light, ethereal gown like to that of the ancient Romans, with roses hung all about her – were on the floor.  On either side of them were their observers: split into two groups.  One side, that of the woman, were all swarthy and dressed in dark attire; the other, that of the man, wore the usual Renaissance formal garb, but their tresses were all distinctly red in colour.  Just behind the two dancers was a church official, and above all of this, crowning the painting, was a small depiction of a very old castle, framed on either side by eight roses.  Four of these were red, and four of these were white, and along with them as a draping white banner, upon which was written a single phrase.

" '_Che conquista anche deve portare il conto_'."

_Whatever _that's_ supposed to mean,_ Clarice thought, now looking at the painting with acrimony.  In the realms of art and literature, she could, perhaps, do much in her own way.  But as for knowing the Italian language as well as her own…that phrase might have much to do with whatever mystery was hidden in the painting, and she didn't have the knowledge to discover it.  She hoped the Count had some sort of book that would help her translate it.  Frustrated by this new discover, she moved restlessly.

Deciding that concentrating on the mystery at that moment would only make her irritation worse, she walked off further into the library, and began to peruse the selection of books that it held.  The library in Rouen was almost the size of this place – and this library was part of someone's home!  She then decided that the Count d'Auberie must be quite the avid reader.

And just as she was thinking this, she rounded the end of a shelf and, since she was looking down at the floor within her pensive reverie, she blundered straight into the only other person in the room – the Count d'Auberie.

"Oh, heavens!  I'm so sorry, my lord!" was all she could manage to gasp with any coherence after their initial reaction to the meeting.  

She had made him drop the book he was carrying.  Quickly, she stooped to pick it up, but he did the same at the exact same moment, saying, "Don't think on't, milady – you were just as aware of my presence here as I was of yours.  But good lord!" He straightened, helping her up at the same time, as a smile lit his face: masked, as usual, only this time by a plain white mask. "I don't think anyone's given me _that_ much of a surprise in quite some time.  You're not the usual little tromping elephant, are you?"

And then he peered at her closely, teasingly, his eyes sparkling.  Clarice ducked her head and blushed at his words.  D'Auberie stood back, still grinning.

"Well," said he, after a moment. "I see that you're not the type of lady who likes to linger in bed after she's first awakened – I hope you didn't think that this was not allowed you?"

His air was then one of genuine concern, and she felt involuntarily anxious to ease it.  "No!" she replied, shaking her head. "I just…well, you might, in all likeliness, think me a very typical child, my lord, but I couldn't bring myself to wait a moment longer.  I was…curious.  Too curious for sleep to control me."

The Count grinned again, and said, "Typical?  I am not entirely certain of that."

"Then what would you call it?" she inquired, demurely, lowering her eyes so that he would not see the amusement that danced within their green spheres.

He did, however.

"Enthusiasm, perhaps, I should think?  But 'tis no matter – I have reason to believe that we will both soon find out.  You've been to see Mme. Colbert this morning, have you not?"

He stepped away, going back to the center of the room, where the painting was set up, and Clarice followed him, like an obedient little spaniel.  Along with the white mask, the rest of his garb that morning was simple: an over-vest of deep blue velvet, close-fitting, well-tailored black breeches, leather boots of the same colour, and a silky white shirt.  She rued not having inquired as to the wardrobes before that morning.

"Oh…yes."

The Count set his book down on a table, seating himself in the chair beside it, and looked up at her from within it then, making a steeple of his fingers as he went on, thoughtfully, yellow eyes intense and unreadable.

"I do not doubt that she gave speech to her festering anger towards me for not having been better…ah, _prepared_, in my interactions with you.  Both in your coming here and your…" He paused, trailing off, as he glanced at her gown. "Wardrobe.  And for that, I apologize.  I cannot excuse myself for that."

Clarice shook her head, vehemently.

"My wardrobe scarcely matters to me, my lord, although I _do_ appreciate what you have already given me, and although the mode which _I_ am accustomed to might be apt to turn a few heads of the more fashionable persons in your society circles.  I could not – _cannot_," she amended, quickly, averting her eyes from him, "Expect that you would treat me with a deference that exceeded that which you give to your other servants." 

He held up a hand, gently interposing.

"Ah, yes, but you are not a servant, Mademoiselle Boisvert – you are an agent, or more accurately, a _partner_, as we will be working together in this.  I provide you with what your station in life requires.  You shall not fool yourself into thinking that I am your superior, or your employer. _ Yes_, you will be recompensed for your work, and _yes_, we have an agreement as to the terms of your being here – but you do not serve me."

He paused.

"And as for your having to travel here on your own…I hope you do not hold too much wrath towards me for that."

Clarice met the yellow gaze firmly, knowingly.

"Wrath?  If you had sent for me, my uncle would have raised a ruckus about it, and if even _that_ had somehow been avoided, word of my departure would have been raised all over, and we would then have been mired in what we most wish to avoid.  No, my lord.  You gave me the perfect opportunity to do what I have long desired to do – to escape, to make my own journey, to finally be free."

They regarded each other in silence for one long moment.

And then, finally, Clarice spoke.

"Now, what can you tell me about the Italian language?"

*                       *                       *

'Che conquista anche deve portare il conto_._'

_He who conquers must also take account._

A ballroom full of people: half of them dressed all in black, the other half of them all redheaded.  A woman garbed in Roman attire, her partner costumed as the Grim Reaper, with a priest standing by, watching them with a look of trepidation written on his features.  Eight roses – four white, and four red.  A castle.

The hours of the day flew by in their never-ending, steady course.  The sun traveled across the sky and faded, the darkness of night issuing in; life burst into a flurry of activity, and then ebbed.  

In the library, books were selected and carried from their places to a desk, becoming towering, precarious piles that almost hid their reader – a certain small, pensive, ebony-haired teenage girl with a penchant for art and literature – from view.  Clarice did not leave the library all that day.  She was far too engrossed in uncovering the mystery behind the Count's fantastic painting.  Her absence from dinner, teatime, and _then_ supper earned the Count himself a sound lecture from his chief housekeeper, but still, Clarice did not stir.

*                       *                       *

_Flower symbolism – roses mean love…a red rose means love and respect, a white rose means innocence and secrecy.  Aphrodite, the goddess of love, used both the white and red rose to depict the dual nature of love; a white rose to signify purity and innocence and the red for desire…  The rose was held as a symbol of life: its beauty reflecting the wonder of living, its thorns showing the hardships that all people go through…  The War of the Roses…the white rose of York and the red rose of Lancaster…conjoined as one, creating the Tudor Rose…and eight of these…_

King Henry VIII of England: Henry Tudor.

_Two sides on a ballroom, one half redheaded, the other garbed in black._

The redheads were meant to symbolize the English King, yet again, while the black-attired courtiers depicted the Spanish nobility: Queen Catherine of Aragon.

_A lady dressed as a goddess, and a man dressed as Death, dancing together._

Love and Death: showing the growing disfavor that Henry had demonstrated towards his Spanish wife in recent years.

_A priest, watching over them._

The objections of the Church to a divorce, should Henry take such a course.

_'He who conquers must also take account'…a castle._

The second painting was in England, hung somewhere in the ballroom of Windsor Castle, which had been built by King William the Conqueror, hundreds of years before: Windsor Castle, one of the ancient fortresses that was still in use.

Without a single moment's delay after this information was revealed, the Count d'Auberie and Jean-Pierre Colbert departed from the castle.  They would now make the journey to the coast of France and thence on to England, where the Count would somehow obtain the next piece of the bizarre puzzle that he had set out to solve…

*                       *                       *

A/N:  To England! *whistles 'God Save the Queen' and goes off to upload the next chapter*


	10. Enter the Villain

A/N:  The chapter title says a lot in three words, doesn't it?  R&r!  @{------------ 

Disclaimer:  Don't own history, don't own the Renaissance, just kinda wished I'd lived back then.  (Or that we'd at least kept some of the fashions, esp. the ones those of the ladies!)  Anywho…

Chapter Nine  - 

Enter the Villain 

It had been a while since Erik, the Count d'Auberie, had made an appearance at the refined English court of Henry the Eighth, but his presence would have created a stir there no matter how long it had been since his last visit.  Not many noblemen walked about in broad daylight wearing enigmatic, concealing masks that hinted at either dark secrets or extreme eccentricities.  And it was thus that he made his way to the throne room of Windsor Castle without giving a second thought, or reaction, to the stares that he was receiving, or the whispers that followed in his wake.

Jean-Pierre cast a glance at the room, and the people surrounding them, with a wary eye.  He did not much enjoy venturing into the English circles, as they held a much more blunt, and almost _harsh_, way of dealing with people who happened to be 'different'.  D'Auberie stilled him with a smooth, barely-noticeable gesture of one hand, murmuring in a low voice as they walked down the people-lined corridor that led into the throne room, "Softly now, M. Colbert – softly.  They won't jump us."

"Yet." Jean-Pierre muttered, still balefully eyeing the people around them.  Then, turning to the tall, masked man who stood beside him, "Milord, are you certain that we are not simply wasting our time here today?  Perchance the King will not—"

"Henry, refuse a more than generous offer from one of King François's favorite comrades?" The Count made a dismissive sound, a wry expression on the visible parts of his face, and shook his head. "No, I should think not, my dear Jean-Pierre.  Henry will leap at the chance to further enrich himself…and besides, I somehow do _not_ get the sense that he will entirely miss the particular piece that we are here for.  You see."

And then, lifting one long, well-developed arm, he pointed across the room to a wall almost entirely overshadowed by the musicians' gallery—

Underneath which hung the second portrait.

The Count grinned in open exultation, feeling his spirits soar with pride for the incredible talents of the young artist who had unraveled – within a day – the secret behind the first portrait in the collection.  Jean-Pierre merely looked more nervous.  But the Count ignored his friend and servant's premonitions; if the butler was the voice of reason in all their undertakings, it was left to him to be the one who acted on his impulses and intuitions.  And more often than not, impulses and intuitions had served him well.

It wouldn't be hard to purchase the portrait from Henry.  With as much trouble as he was already going through with his increasingly unfavorable wife, Catherine of Aragon, the English king wouldn't give a second thought to letting something so simple as a mere painting.  Especially so if it was one that hadn't even been done by an English artist.  It would be almost insanely easy.

Or so he thought until he caught sight of yet another visiting French nobleman – Armand de Mercier.

*                       *                       *

The houses of the Marquis de Mercier and the Count d'Auberie had never been quite amicable: the relationship between the two noblemen could be described as a cool, detached, and ultimately aloof one at best.  And although no one knew quite what the first and foremost reason for this was, several had been put forward.

Armand de Mercier was quite a bit younger than the Count; twenty years at least stood between the two of them.  He was the holder of an estate not nearly as large nor wealthy or beautiful as that which belonged to d'Auberie, yet he was quite a powerful and charismatic force in the French nobility.  His character, however, was more well known than anything else about him.  When one was introduced to him, one generally came away with the feeling that they had just spoken to some sort of _reptile_ that had happened to have been encased in a human form.  

The way that he smiled when spoken to – in a secretive, give-nothing, almost mocking way that seemed condescending, cold, and cruel – may have been part of this; it also may have stemmed from the way that his dark, entrancing eyes glittered at times.  It may have been the way he spoke: in a cool, smooth, nearly sibilant voice that was all grace, poise, and refinement.  

But whatever the reason, people generally tended to watch their step around them.  Anyone who met him either hated him, or loved him – and those who hated him loved the Count d'Auberie; those who loved him vastly hated the Count.

De Mercier was not an unattractive young man.  He was actually rather handsome, or so it was generally thought: blessed with high, delicate, pale features especially favored in the French nobility, dark, wavy hair, and an elegant stature and build, he was the epitome of the typical rich, titled youth of that age.  He was gifted in all the areas that were cherished in the Renaissance man.

In short, he was the Count's exact match, only twenty years younger.

And they were, for all intents and purposes, the worst of enemies.

*                       *                       *

The very next morning, the Count found himself awakened by a knock on the door of his bedchamber.  Dragging himself out of his unconsciousness, he sat halfway up, onto his elbows, automatically reaching with one hand over to the table that stood by his bed, to take his mask and place it on over his face.  It was impossible to sleep with the blasted porcelain thing on; he might either break it, or find breathing impossible when wearing it in his sleep.  

Only after he had tied its laces behind his head did he finally summon the willpower to growl his permission for whomever it was that stood outside to enter.  It was Jean-Pierre, who was already dressed for the day, and seemed as if he had been up for quite a long while.  _As he probably has been,_ d'Auberie thought to himself irritably.  Having seen that his handsome young archenemy was also present at the court of Henry VIII hadn't done much to improve his temper.

Jean-Pierre bowed a bit and then stood straight.

"Good morning, my lord."

" 'Morning, Jean-Pierre," rumbled the groggy Count in reply.  Mornings were not his favorite time of day.  He ran an idle hand through his thick black hair, causing it to fall forward onto his forehead, and prompted, "Is there something you needed?"

M. Colbert paused a moment, seeming to hesitate.  Then, finally, with an exceedingly careful note in his voice, "Milord, your offer to purchase the ballroom portrait has been accepted – however…"  And he trailed off.

The Count rolled his eyes, already guessing what was toward.

"However…?"

"However, the Marquis de Mercier has also lately bespoken an interest in its purchase; in order to remedy the situation, he has extended an invitation for you to meet him in the gymnasium this morning, so that you may discuss it with him."

The Count made a sound of extreme irritation and flopped back onto his mountains of pillows, one hand moving to his face so that he could rub his eyes tiredly with it.  All this, and at only a few hours into the early morning!  

_That stupid boy – that preposterous, assuming fop!  Fop, fop, FOP!_

At this, he lifted his hand enough to peer across the room at his butler, and questioned, "Did he stipulate any specific time?"

Indeed, the Marquis de Mercier had, and so the Count d'Auberie found himself compelled to forget all thought of resting after his long journey from the mountainous region of France where he made his home, and prepare to go meet his worst enemy down in the gymnasium of Windsor Castle.

*                       *                       *

The Count and his servant arrived just five minutes after the agreed time of meeting, the nobleman having no wish to do exactly as his longtime nemesis wished for him to do.  The Marquis de Mercier was already there, with his attendants and usual cronies: suited up for fencing on the dueling floor.  A broad, sparkling, and very charming white smile split his handsome young face as he took note of the Count's approach, and he stepped forward, enthusiastically.

"Well met, _Monseigneur le Comte_!" he greeted in French, as the other occupants of the room halted in their activities to witness the entrance of the famed nobleman who wore the mask.   "I am so glad that you have been able to meet me here this morning!  I hope it wasn't too much trouble for you – surely, I had no wish to put you out of your convenience or comfort."

The Count came to a stop about three feet off from him, not even glancing at Armand de Mercier's extended hand: a grave slight, in the eyes of the nobility present, both English and French – and whatever else.  

"_Le Marquis de Mercier_," he commented, in a carefully controlled, although falsely pleasant tone: his masked face hiding all emotion whatsoever. "What an unpleasant surprise!"

Armand de Mercier's grin became all the more broad, and he replied, with the same façade of friendship and pleasantry, "Well, old man, I hear that you've expressed an interest in the old painting that hangs in the ballroom – quite an interesting piece, isn't it?  And what instigated this desire of yours to have it?  Not getting enough action in that old rustic bell tower of yours – or is it just old age?"

D'Auberie laughed: shortly and coldly, grinning just as brightly.

"That is none of your concern whatsoever, you foppish boy."

From the appearance of this conversation, anyone who didn't speak French would have thought that this was a meeting of two very old and dear friends…when in reality, nothing could be further from the truth.

Armand laughed as well and shook his head, dark eyes sparkling with mirth – mirth which concealed the underlying dangerous hardening of their expression.

"Well!" he laughed again. "I can see that the distantness of your lifestyle hasn't served to dull your wit, milord!  But come now," More seriously. "I would very much like to have that painting _myself_ – for reasons of my own," he added, with dark elusiveness, eyeing the Count, "So what I propose is simple: a duel, for the ownership of the painting.  Whomever wins will go through with the petition to _Henri_ in order to obtain it.  Are you up to that…or would you rather not risk the challenge?"

The Count's smile became quite dazzling – but his yellow eyes took on a quite dangerous glint behind his black porcelain mask.

"Perhaps…and is that the best you can do?"

Before anyone could react to this gratuitous insult, the two men repaired to opposite ends of the dueling floor, their comrades going along with them.  D'Auberie suited up for the bout silently, grimly lacing the heavily-padded white chest guard with an extremely foreboding air hanging about him, reflected in the give-nothing set of his mouth and the flat expression in his eyes.  Jean-Pierre dashed to assist him, incredibly alarmed, and spoke as his employer readied himself for the duel.

"My lord!  My lord, this is _madness_!  Ignore the boy – let us leave; there is no point in staying here to respond to his challenge!  _Please_, milord!"

D'Auberie turned on him, almost abruptly, and faced him squarely, eyes snapping yellow sparks.  "No!" he growled. "No.  We _are_ staying.  I will not be dissuaded.  We are staying – and if you have any further objections on the matter, I suggest that you take yourself elsewhere.  Now will you, or do I have your support?"

M. Colbert averted his eyes and looked down, shaking his head with a tired sigh. The Count was like any other nobleman – possessed of an insane sense of honour.

And when he'd set his mind to something, nothing would stop him.

"You know you have my loyalty, milord."

The Count did not even look at him.

"Good.  Now help me suit up."

His yellow eyes narrowed.

"I've a mind to teach this boy a lesson."

*                       *                       *

All the occupants of the dueling floor stepped off and to the sides as the two French noblemen – the Marquis de Mercier and the Count d'Auberie – stepped onto it, rapiers loosely held in their hands, facing each other in intense concentration.  Their eyes, expressions, and carriage showed what was going on inside both of them.

_A preparation for battle._

De Mercier flashed the Count a cocky, taunting little smile as they assumed the initial dueling positions opposite from one another.

"So, old man, you've chosen to hazard the challenge?  Are you certain that you're ready for me?"

The Count merely sent him a cool smile back in reply to these words, testing out his position on the floor, and then raising the blade of his weapon to touch that of the Marquis.  Then, he said, calmly, "I think the question is, _boy_, do _you_ know what you've gotten yourself into?"

And with that, they were given the cue to begin – and immediately, the duel commenced.  De Mercier thrust his blade forward, stabbing it towards d'Auberie, who evaded it with a lightning-quick dodge to the side.  Following up on his advantage, gained as the Marquis moved forward after his initial lunge, he smacked the other blade aside, slashing quickly down with his own.  The two rapiers met with a terrific, ringing clash, sparks almost flying, and then the duel really became serious.

The two participants fought across the floor, back and forth, from one side to the other, until they actually came off of it and began dueling into the room, onlookers scattering to preserve their own safety.  

By then it was obvious: this was no mere friendly bout of dueling.  

This was a deadly game between two very formidable enemies.

On and on the duel raged, taking the Count and the Marquis out of the gymnasium entirely and into the hallway beyond, where the Marquis's blade slashed into a tapestry on the wall, bringing it crashing down almost on top of the Count, who quickly avoided it by whirling to one side, out of his opponent's reach.  The people who were standing in the corridor were frozen for one split second in a mixture of horror and awe as they witnessed this intense battle, and then – like the occupants of the gymnasium – forced to flee.  The shrieks of a few startled ladies filled the air, along with the continued clashing of the two noblemen's swords.

Suddenly, they locked swords and stood still for a moment, both struggling to free themselves from the other's death-lock on their blades, glaring into one another's eyes.  Finally, the Marquis rasped, his cocky twist of the lips never leaving his face, "Well – are you ready to secede yet…old man?"

The Count returned the expression, although his jaw was beginning to tremble as he clenched it with the effort he was exerting.  Both his and the Marquis's fencing attire had been torn in several places, and both of their faces, neck, and chests were bathed in sweat: muscles tensed and hard underneath their clothing, eyes alight with the fire of pure hatred.  So Armand thought he was going to win, did he?

"Didn't you know…" he rasped back, rallying his strength for one final assault. "That the house of d'Auberie _never_ secedes?"

"All right then," was the still defiant reply. "Then let's set a standard for defeat – the first sword to draw blood wins."

"Fine by me."

And then the Count pulled back on his sword, disengaging it from the lock, which made the Marquis fall forward.  He would have fallen directly on his face into the dusty carpet had he not been possessed of a set of very good reflexes.  Still, that was not enough to gain him the upper hand again – the Count followed through on his attack, his yellow eyes gleaming almost viciously, forcing the younger man down the corridor and to a window that opened out onto a portico with stairs leading down onto a lawn only a few feet below.  

One furious slash of the Count's sword sent de Mercier's own weapon flying onto the marble floor of the courtyard below, and then the young marquis himself was shoved – roughly and inescapably – out of the window.  

De Mercier fell to the ground and went rolling down the stairs, but the Count hadn't finished with him yet.  Leaping out after him without a single moment's pause, he was on the ground of the courtyard almost before de Mercier had gathered his wits enough to propel himself to his feet and go after his sword again.

The Count attacked again, this time driving the Marquis into a corner, with his back against the stone wall; and there, he stopped, holding his sword out straight, leveled at his opponent's throat, breathing hard, with sweat rolling down the sides of his face underneath his mask, yellow eyes glaring.

He said only two words.

"You lose."

And de Mercier put one hand up to his left shoulder, and then pulled his fingers away, a numb expression on his aesthetic young face…to see blood staining the tips of those fingers.  All was silent in the courtyard for one long, tense moment, as everyone present held his or her breath and waited to see what the Marquis de Mercier would now do.  The Count remained exactly as he was, unmoving as a statue, his eyes never leaving his young archenemy, who stared at his hand for a moment longer, and then began to laugh softly, under his breath, shaking his head ruefully.

"Well, whoever said that the world could be predictable was very wrong – very dead _earnest_ wrong!" 

Then he looked up, to the Count, and grinned, still laughing and shaking his head.  

"Good show, old man.  You have me – I secede.  This time, at least."

And he bowed deeply, offering his sword hilt to the Count, who finally lowered his own weapon, but did not even make a move to acknowledge the gesture of surrender.

All he did was make a single last comment: coldly.  

"You should not think there will be a next time, monsieur."  

Then, he turned his back on the Marquis, and life suddenly surged back into the silent courtyard, as people began to talk animatedly about what had just occurred, while the Count handed his rapier to a servant who stood nearby, then walked up the stairs.  His servant waited for him by the door, an incredibly tense, drawn expression on his genteel face, and the Count paused a moment before him.

"We depart, M. Colbert."

*                       *                       *

At the port of Dover, the Count d'Auberie's ship – the _Odyssey_ – was moored: a veritable giant among the many other vessels that lay in wait there.  Late one night in mid-spring, the nobleman himself arrived by carriage, accompanied by his most trusted manservant.  However, he did not board the ship.  As the things from the carriage were being brought aboard, d'Auberie pulled M. Colbert aside.

"Jean-Pierre, would you have any issues with making the journey across the Channel without me?" he asked, quickly and to the point, his tone earnest and quite grave.  The butler cocked an eyebrow at this, but did not seem otherwise surprised.

"If it is your wish, monseigneur…"  

"It is," the Count assured him.  Just then, there was the sound of approaching hoof beats and rolling carriage wheels, coming nearer through the darkness, and he turned briefly away, glancing towards the source of the noise, and when he turned back, he spoke with an even more urgent tone. 

"Monsieur, I have been given reason to believe that someone has plans for something to go wrong in the transportation of the Windsor Castle ballroom portrait tonight.  I want you to return on the _Odyssey_, and not give anyone a word about where I am – don't let on that I am not with you.  I'll take a different ship and arrive at a different port, with the painting.  Can you do this?"

M. Colbert seemed almost affronted that the Count should have to ask.

"Of course, milord!  But how should I set about finding you again once we have put in to port again?"

The Count moved away, resting his hand on his servant and friend's shoulder for one moment, as he replied, voice drifting back through the growing darkness, "Do not worry about that, my friend –_ do not worry_…"

*                       *                       *

Two weeks later, somewhere in the midst of a French port, two shifty-eyed, rough-looking men came at summons to a dingy, low-lit flat.  As soon as the door had been closed behind them, the superior of the two – a character who could have easily passed as some sort of pirate or other rogue – removed the hood of his cloak and spoke to the slender, elegant figure that was awaiting them.

"M'lord, the Count d'Auberie's _Odyssey_ has put into port."

A pause.

"And the painting wasn't anywhere on't."

The figure moved slightly, and a cold, cruel chuckle issued out of the darkness.

"I thought as much.  You may proceed with the next step of the plan then…"

*                       *                       *

And somewhere else in that same port, a tall, cloaked and hooded figure – disguised quite amply in indistinguishable brown broadcloth: its face, however, hidden by a startling black mask, yellow eyes glittering from within it – left the ship upon which he had traveled from the English shore.  Over his shoulder was slung a simple, worn pack, which looked to be somewhat heavy, from the way his posture was stooped.

After glancing briefly about himself then, the Count d'Auberie set off down the dusty, deserted street: finally, truly on his way home, at last.

*                       *                       *

_But, just when all seemed lost, a ray of hope appeared: in the form of a prince from a neighboring kingdom.  Young Prince Skye stepped forward, boldly, and said to the distraught King and Queen, 'I will go after the marauding goblins, and if I must travel from one end of this world to the other, and even beyond it, I will return her to you.  And if I cannot find her, I will not return to this place…'_

_And then, forsaking his crown, his home, and even his own safety, the Prince courageously went forth to find the abducted infant princess.  The goblins left hardly any traces of their passing, but Prince Skye sought them out, and followed their trail, relentlessly continuing his search for the princess._

_His quest soon took him far, far away from his home…_     

"May I interrupt?"

Clarice started, surprised by the sudden question: put to her by a gentle, masculine voice nearby, almost in her ear.  Quickly, she set aside her quill pen and book, looking up and over her shoulder.  There, she saw the owner of the voice, who had just entered the library that she had selected to be her writing location.  It was, of course, the Count d'Auberie: tall, enigmatic, charming, and finely-attired as ever, grinning at her from behind the mask that he wore.

"Milord!  You've returned!" she said, standing up and turning towards him: a smile of her own lighting her green eyes beautifully and curving her full, dark red lips.  She came around the settee that she had been seated on and met him halfway across the distance that had been between them, he taking her hand and bowing over it, briefly brushing its back with his lips, as she curtsied deeply.  When they straightened, he stood back and inclined his head in reply to her words before speaking.

"I have, mademoiselle – and good evening to you, as well."

Clarice lowered her head, inclining her head as he had in her own reply to this, and then the Count, offering her his hand, gallantly escorted her back to her seat, taking his place across from her in a chair that had been placed nearby.  Delicately perching herself on the edge of the settee: voluminous silken skirts spread out about her, with her back ramrod straight and hands folded demurely in her lap, Clarice averted her eyes from him, pondering briefly if she should plunge right into asking him if her answer to the first painting's mystery had been correct.

"I hope…your visit to England was…rewarding, milord?"

She added the question mark in her tone after hastily making the decision to do so, even though it seemed a bit impulsive on her part.  

The Count, however, spared her from worrying about how to ask the question that she was dying to know the answer of.  As if he had read her mind – which he seemed to have a knack for doing anyway – he then informed her, "Yes, it was indeed, milady.  Your answer to the first puzzle was absolutely correct, for which I applaud you most enthusiastically."

Clarice felt herself flush with pleasure and turned her head aside, studying her hands as they lay in her lap: sensing the Count's gaze on her profile.

Then, "I would have informed you of this earlier, but I must plead the excuse of having arrived here late last night, and then slept all this day.  I returned separately from my traveling companion, M. Colbert, who has not yet returned, but I _have_ brought the second painting with me." 

Clarice's large, entrancing green eyes brightened with excitement, and she leaned forward, looking as if she was brimming with questions.  

The Count smiled, pleased by her reaction, and continued, "You will find this one even more to your liking, I think; I will be much interested in being an actual witness to your mystery-solving this time, milady – if you will allow such a thing."

Clarice immediately replied that he must do as he wished, and that she would be very honoured to have him there with her.  Their discussion trailed off after that, as she looked back down to her writing and he simply gazed at her with his gentle eyes.  

Then, softly, he asked, "You have been well, I trust, milady?"

Looking up, she nodded quickly, replying, "Of course, my lord." She hesitated. "And…and you?"

He smiled at her.

"I am very well, thank you, milady."

The silence stepped in between them again, and they sat without moving or speaking: the wordlessness of the moment was sweet, and not at all oppressive.  It seemed to be right – the two of them, simply sitting together in the quiet.  Clarice found her mind drifting to memories of the last two months, in which his absence had taken place.  

Everyone in the chateau was very kind and polite to her, and she was growing ever fonder of Mme. Colbert and her near associates; however, it was only in the Count's return that she found her true contentment.  

Perhaps it was because he was the one who had first invited her to come to the place – he was her first friend there, when it came down to just that.  Perhaps it was…perhaps it was something else entirely.

_Funny thought._

"A question of you, if I may, mademoiselle."

The sound of the Count's gentle, almost tender voice brought her back to reality without harshness, and she turned her gaze upon him again, to find him looking at her with a peculiar, almost bittersweet expression in his yellow eyes.  

Strange – now…now that she was beginning to know him, she could almost bring herself to forget his terrible disfigurement entirely.  Although she did not judge his character upon his appearance, she could not drive the memory of that first terrible moment of their meeting at midnight from her mind, and the remembrance of his unmasked face had haunted her ever since.  

But now…now…things seemed different.  His eyes no longer seemed so disturbing as the burning yellow that she had first thought them – now they seemed more golden, like the light of the glorious morning sun in the sky…

"Any question, milord."

His eyes gazed deeply into hers.

"How old are you, mademoiselle?"

This puzzled her.

"Sixteen, my lord…I'll be seventeen in August."

With an air of acknowledgement of her answer, he sat back in his chair, one arm draped over its curving back, expression now becoming thoughtful.  Suddenly then, he commented, "And you may as well ask the question that I know you're dying to know."

The unexpectedness of the previous moment forgotten, Clarice felt a grin split her face, and she asked him, "How old are you, _Monseigneur le Comte_?"

"Would you believe me if I told you I was over one thousand years of age?"

There was a vast amount of both mischief in his eyes, dismissing any thought of this being really true, and then he started to chuckle, which made her laugh; then, when the laughter had stopped a moment later, he then said, more seriously, "Well, I certainly feel like I'm that age – believe that, at least.  One thousand, going on forty-three."

Clarice eyed him then, speculatively.  He looked much younger than forty-two; with his thick, jet-black hair and youthful manner, complexion, voice, and bearing, no one would think that he was over twenty-six.  Forty-two.

Who would have guessed?

_Well._

The Count then leaned forward, gesturing to her book.

"Your story?"

She blushed again, remembering the night in the shop, when he had first seen the illustrations for the particular tale in question.  Then she nodded.

"Yes."

"A fairy tale?"

For some reason, she felt impelled, by his manner, to smile.

"Yes, milord."

They gazed at each other for a moment.

"Perhaps sometime you would let me read it?"

"But of course."

*                       *                       *

A/N:  So now we have a villain and some rather interesting developments, including a plot, some more Clarice/Count action…but where is this heading?  Now we know just how far apart they are (not only in station but in age), but things like age were overlooked a lot in the Renaissance…however, can the Count overlook it?  What will happen next, as the mystery further progresses…?  New chapters soon.  Ta-ta for now though!  Fair thee well until we next meet, good friends!


	11. Enter the Love Interest

A/N:  Jeeeeeez.  Okay, I hope that you all can forgive me for this latest delay, but I think by the time you've finished reading this chapter, you'll understand why.  In short, it took an immense amount of research (at least, immense when compared to the amount that I did for my other stories) to complete this chapter.  And I realize that my German and Italian may be a bit off, but please blame that on the translation site I use, and not me.  I try my best. Furthermore, see the chapter title?  Don't try killing me for this latest development in the story line.  Nothing's falling apart yet, but I'm not going to let these two have it easy. Comments to specific things:  starting with the Count's age.  Well, there is a definite reason why he has to be so much older, which will be brought out more and more as we go on.  Trust me…  The Count's 'species', if you will: faery?  Hmm.  That might have been an interesting thought.  I can tell you right now that he has a lot of secrets, but being faery isn't one of them.  And cameos for certain characters from the past…well, I'm not sure if I can work that in to the story, but I came up with this little infomercial, if you will, featuring a couple of them… Disclaimer:  Blah blah blah, don't own history, own the Count and Clarice and whoever else isn't real, blah blah blah, yadda yadda, and now this announcement from your friendly Travelers of Enchantment protagonists! (Enter Gavin, Arin, Orlando, and Orandor) Gavin: (bright, winning salesman grin)  And a very good afternoon to you, ladies and gentlemen!  I hope you've been enjoying your day so far, and would like to give a shout out to all my friends— Kates: Hurry it up.  We've got a two-minute slot scheduled, remember?  Try to keep it concise, for the love of Pete! Gavin: Erm.  Uh…oh yes.  Thank you for taking your time away from our normal broadcast.  Are you looking for something special to give to your truly _special_ Valentine?  Something a little different from the normal chocolate-and-paper-cards deal? Orlando: (flashes an even more brilliant, winning grin.  Cue the swoons, people) Well, look no further, because we have the perfect Valentine's Day gift for _you_! Arin and Orandor (hold up a pale purple box and announce): Enchanted roses! Orlando: They're as beautiful as anybody could want! Gavin: They're so fragrant, they'll cure anybody's gym bag of that nasty dirty-sock smell!  (Orlando and Arin shoot death-ray glares at him)  Eep! Orandor: They can cover up your run-down old castle!  *sotto voice*  Not like we have any of those around here, but that's not the point… Arin: They'll perk up that listless garden… Orlando: And they grow at hyperspeed!  (turns to Arin, looking disgusted) _Hyperspeed_?  Who wrote this script? Arin (shrugs): Haven't the faintest idea.  Gavin: And if you call right now, in the next ten minutes, you can get a second pack absolutely free, along with a copy of the first printed edition of The Faery Princesses' Diaries! (Suddenly, Elladine and Arielle run on and tackle him, just as Arin and Orlando are looking like they might do so themselves) Elladine: So it WAS you!  You unbelievable slimy son of a slime-monster! Arielle: I'll teach you to read _my diary!  (Five minutes pass in which Kates tries to get rid of the migraine that Gavin has caused, and also in which Gavin gets chased around the block by a very angry pair of faery princesses) Orandor (tentatively, once the ruckus has settled down) So waste no more time searching – buy the object of your affection some real roses! Gavin (pops his head back in around the corner of the wall): Call 1-800-I-LUV-GAVIN or e-mail me at gavinfan@ea-- _

Orandor:  NO!  NOT AGAIN!  

(And then Arin and Orlando get in on the action, and Gavin is successfully exiled from the computer room)

Kates:  Okaaaaaay…everybody ready for the story now?  Okaaay.  That's nice.  Stories are nice…very nice…could somebody please get me a Tylenol, or any other strong painkiller?  I'd appreciate that, thank you.  'Kay.  Story. 

   Chapter Ten  - 

Enter the Love Interest

The night of June 15th, 1530, found the _Odyssey_ once more on the sea: this time, it was headed not for England, but for the coast of Italy – specifically, the port of Genoa.  Scarcely even two weeks after Clarice had been given the Windsor Castle ballroom portrait, she had deciphered its mystery.  After viewing the portrait – which had been a detailed depiction of the Roman mythological god, Cupid, and his lovely bride, Psyche, together in a many-windowed room that looked out onto a bright, sprawling city – she had made her decision on where the third piece of the puzzle was located.  

It was very simple, really.

Records of Milan's first known inhabitants dated back to the Bronze Age: the Gaul people had settled there in the 4th century B.C.  After them, it had been conquered by the Romans, who made Milan into an autonomous province under the Roman control.  The geographical position of the city, at the center of the Padana Plain, made it a perfect stopping place for merchants and travelers en-route to the north of the Italian Peninsula.  It also became an important military defense against the ancient barbarians of northern Europe and was soon the most powerful city in Europe, after Rome.  

Featured in the painting were several clues that alluded to this – the use of Roman mythology and Latin phrases skillfully interwoven into the picture, the wine in the god and goddess's hands: as the regions surrounding Milan were known for it, the mountains and city in the background.  All these and more pointed almost quite clearly to Milan.

And so to Milan they went.

During her time studying the portrait, Clarice had often enjoyed her enigmatic employer's company.  And as mysterious and seemingly unreachable as he seemed like to be, she soon found that he was incredibly easy to talk to.  Hours and hours had passed them by, in which they had talked about many, many things: about their interests, about society, current issues, and simply life in general.  

Sometimes it took _years_ for two people to get to truly know one another.

And sometimes it took just days.

*                       *                       *

It was very quiet out at sea, as the hour of midnight slowly slipped into being.  The waters were calm and dark, the moon's pale, gentle rays sparkling on their peaked surfaces, as the ship's crew took their watches, everyone else sleeping.

_Almost_ everyone else.

The Count didn't exactly think of himself as an insomniac, but truth to be told, he didn't sleep through the night very often.  He simply found it more to his liking to be awake at times, rather than attempting to sleep when such a thing was evading him.  And this night, he actually had a _reason to be awake.  _

Very soon, they would reach Genoa – by morning, if not earlier, and there, yet another piece to the artistic puzzle awaited them.  He had a feeling that danger awaited them there as well: danger, if not more.  There was something odd going on, he had long sensed.  Rumors whispered at court and in various other places had begun to circulate, and whereas he normally ignored such things…

_Clarice._

He stepped to the door that connected his cabin to the one next to it, and gently turned the knob, pushing it open so that he could look into the room beyond.  A serene void of many velvety shades of blue greeted him, in the midst of which was a window, its hinged panes pushed wide open to emit the gentle flow of the fresh sea breeze.  And just underneath that window, curled up in the mound of silken pillows that had been left on the window seat, was a dreaming Clarice.  

The Count felt a soft, indulgent smile curve his lips a bit and he crossed the room, silently, so as not to wake her, coming to stand looking down on her with a gaze so unreadable that even he didn't really know the emotions behind.  Gently, he reached out one hand and brushed a few errant strands of her ebony-black hair off of her face, revealing her pale, soft profile to the moon's doting glow.  

He wondered what she was dreaming about.  

She looked hardly any different now, in her sleep, than she did in the daytime: her lips were still curved by her perpetual, slight little smile, and she seemed both serene and confident, resting assured in the events of her life.  He almost wondered if she had thought, in her last moments before falling into the deepest slumber, of the time they had spent together that afternoon, playing chess – which he had been teaching her – and looking out at the cerulean expanse of ocean that surrounded them in every which direction, trying to catch a glimpse of its underwater inhabitants.

The memories of that – of sunshine, salt spray, laughter, and adventurous expeditions throughout the _Odyssey_'s interior – were certainly cause enough for smiling.  And really, when it came down to that…his life had been filled with more laughter, more smiles and genuine happiness, since she had come into it than ever before.  

Why this was so, he had no idea.  

Before, he had led a passive existence: neither overwhelmingly joyous at anything, but not terribly unhappy either.  And now – now he had this teenage girl, this friend, this…whatever else she was to him, and everything seemed somehow better.  They had become so close, such good friends…but why?  They were undoubtedly alike in many, many ways, but the world would say there shouldn't be a reason why two people of such different backgrounds and stations in life – and such varying ages! – should be close comrades.  Did he care?  _Could he care?_

She had never known her father.

And he had never had a daughter.

_There's for your compunctions about us!_ he thought, rebelliously, at the world and its opinions on everything and anything, and then he stared out the window, eyes dark and brooding behind his mask, snapping in irritation.

The best thing to do at that moment was, he then decided, to stop thinking about such irritating matters.  He turned his gaze back to Clarice's sleeping figure again and let it fix itself upon her for a moment.  

She needed to be in bed.  

Falling asleep beside an open window with the melody of the sea as a lullaby, while the moon and stars sent their gentle light down upon her, was a romantic enough notion, but sometimes notions had best be ignored and common sense heeded.  

So he swiftly but silently reached down and eased his arms underneath and anyway about her, lifting her up off of the window seat and gathering her into his embrace.  Clarice stirred only slightly in her sleep, and he paused: not wanting for her to wake up and find that him holding her.  

As he moved across the room towards the lavish four-poster bed that had been designated as hers for the voyage, he found himself noting the similarities of this situation to a few others from the past…

"I remember the first time I held you like this," he said: his voice barely a whisper, speaking to her sleeping form as if she was really listening. "I saw you ride up to the castle on your horse – Archimedes, I think you told me was his name – and something was wrong…I could see it.  And then I came around the side of the kitchen wing just in time to see you have our conversation with Mme. Colbert, and faint.  That was the first time I held you.  I will _never forget it."_

He paused then, looking at her still face, and was suddenly reminded of the harsh, unfeeling reality that would ever lie between them – in the cold, hard form of the mask that he wore.  Turning around slightly, he saw a reflection of himself in the mirror that was on the room's vanity table: the picture of a tall, thin man with a face obscured by a black porcelain mask, holding a sleeping beauty in his arms.  

There had been a second time that he had done this…

_It was night then, _he remembered, as he went to the side of the bed and laid Clarice onto it, smoothing the covers over her and then briefly running a fingertip along the curve of her cheek.  _It was night, and you had been sick: worn out and ill with exhaustion.  I stayed with you all during that time, during the deepest watches of the night…and then you woke up, and you were disoriented and frightened: alone in a dark place that you had never seen before…_

He didn't blame her for her reaction to finding him, alone, in his room: unmasked.  How could he, when he had done the exact same thing when the bandages had come off?  It was impossible not to recoil with horror when confronted with a face like his, something that seemed to have come out of the most horrible nightmares.  

And all this because of one blinding instant – a single agonizing moment, in which _everything he had known and loved had been taken from him._

_I'm sorry for this, sweet one,_ he thought, sitting down gently on the edge of the bed, reaching out to stroke her silky black curls away from her face once more, gazing into her face.  _I'm sorry that I can't be normal for you, and for anything else that might happen in the future…_

_I'm sorry._

And then he stood up and left the room without a second glance, returning to his own chamber and closing the door that separated the two rooms.  Once there, he went in silence to his own bed, sitting down in its edge and putting his face into his hands, shoulders and back slumping in utter weariness.  

Closing his eyes, he tried to think – tried to plan out his next movements in the quest, to decide what arrangement were his more important priorities, to keep himself from thinking about nothing but the memories that were now torturing him with their refusal to leave!

Finally, he lifted his head and looked out the nearby window, his yellow eyes firm and unwavering with one resolution.

No matter what it cost him, he would keep Clarice safe.

No matter what.

*                       *                       *

"Good morning, beautiful world!  The sun and sky rain joyful praises of your fairness, and all nature sings of one place – _Italy!"_

Clarice flung her arms wide, turning her face up to the sky so that the bright, warm rays of the sun that she had just so poetically praised could rain down on her skin.  She took another step forward, so that her companion – a handmaid, Chlöe – could come out onto the sunlit terrace with her.  

The Count and his party were at last in the famed land of the magnificent Romans of old, and such a thing was _indeed_ cause for celebration, especially after a week or more of traveling both by land and_ by sea to the ancient and beautiful city of Milan.  And now, as Clarice and her companion were part of the fabulously wealthy and well-known Count d'Auberie's retinue, they now found themselves as residents – for a time – at the Sforzesco Castle.  _

The Sforzo family had long been in power over Milan, and they had made much success in that undertaking: the people actually seemed to like them, at least more so than their predecessors, the Visconti signoria, and the court at the castle itself was known, in the past and the present, as one of the richest in Renaissance Europe.  Hundreds of people, nobility of all varieties, flocked to it with a voraciousness that had caused Milan to be known for the epicenter of activity that it was.

Clarice could hardly wait to begin really enjoying her stay there.

Leaning over the edge of the terrace, she gazed at her surroundings.  In every which direction, she could see the sprawling grounds of the castle, filled with courtiers and every sort of nobility that could be imagined.  There were so many things to do – so many places to go, and people to meet!  For the first time in her life, Clarice found that she was standing directly in the middle of the fulfillment of all her dreams.  Here was excitement, intrigue, beauty, amusement, wit, and pleasure – and more.

She had entered a whole new world.

Just then, she heard a step on the floor behind her and turned around.  "I hope I find you well this morning, milady?" a familiar male voice asked, and she smiled brightly, automatically curtseying with an inherent grace and ease as she felt her hand taken and lightly kissed.  When she looked up, her green eyes were sparkling.

"You should not think that I would be otherwise, milord!" she replied, and the Count grinned before he extended his arm to her, crooking it slightly.

"Then perhaps you would not be averse to making a round with me, on this most beautiful of mornings?"

Clarice inclined her head, sinking down in a small, almost coquettish curtsey once more, as the ethereal, transparent pastel silken petals that had been placed in her hair that day fluttered like the wings of butterflies against its ebony sleekness.

"I am honoured that Your Grace should ask me to do so." 

And with that, she wound her arm about his and he gallantly escorted her down the terrace steps and onto the sunlit lawn below, Chlöe following respectfully behind.  The small party of three traveled through the gardens, meandering without a care in the world, with the Count introducing his young companion to quite a few of the nobles that he knew there.  Clarice soon found herself in conversation, on several occasions, with people of all ranks, appearances, and nationalities: Spaniards, Danes, Englishmen, Welsh, Italians, and more.  By the time half an hour had gone by, she felt her head spinning with titles, polite questions and replies, and, first and foremost, the startling realization that she – an orphaned, low-ranking child – had been dropped into the midst of all this wealth, power, and opulence!

But the most surprising experience was yet to come.

The Count had briefly left Clarice and her maid in a shaded, cool alcove: a wooden dome grown over with ivy, blooming orange tree topiaries, and other sorts of fragrant and beautiful greenery, to fetch them all some refreshment, as the weather was growing rather warm at the onset of noon.  Within moments he returned, and Clarice was just taking the drink that he had handed to her from him when they were suddenly hailed by a voice.  Clarice looked up and saw that someone – a man – was standing behind the Count, who likewise reacted to the voice and turned.

"Well now, Signor Erik!" greeted the voice: warm, friendly, boyish, speaking volumes of laughter and smiles and an all-around good nature. "So: this is your young companion – what would you, hiding her away from all those who desire to meet her, and for such a_ long_ time?"

The Count smiled, in turn, and clasped hands familiarly with the newcomer: a tall, slender, very attractive young man who appeared to be a member of the Italian court.  His hair was dark – though not so dark as either the Count's or Clarice's, as were his eyes, which sparkled with delight and mirth.  

Clarice found these eyes focused on her after a moment.  

She felt herself blush.

"If I've kept her hidden away at all, Monsieur Fabrizio," the Count then replied, "It was because I wished to incite the insane curiosity of men like _you!"_

And with that, he held out a hand to Clarice, who stood and took it, coming to stand with the two nobles.  The younger of the two smiled at her, and this time, she was so won over by the amount of friendliness and sincerity in the expression that she found herself genuinely smiling back.  The Count looked from one of them to the other, eyes and face unreadable behind its smile and the mask, for one split second.

Then, "Monsieur, may I have the honour of presenting the lady Clarice Gisèle Violette Marie Boisvert of Rouen?" 

"_Incantato, mia signora cara," the young man said and took her hand in his, bowing low over it and smiling into her eyes as he kissed its back.  His young voice spoke Italian beautifully, but he also spoke French without a trace of accent.  He straightened, looking at her again, as the Count continued. _

"And, milady, may I introduce _you_ to the Duke Fabrizio Rinaldo Salvatore de Luca, of Venice?"

Clarice felt her eyes widen ever so slightly at this – a duke!  She would never have guessed, for he was so young!  He only looked a little older than her.  The Duke read her expression, even though she tried to hide it by curtseying deeply, and turned back to the Count, adding, almost mischievously, "Truly, Signor Erik, you have stumbled upon a rare find!  Many men would wish they had your luck – you've got yourself a real _bianca rosa di Francia.  And I envy you."_

"Fabrizio…" 

The Count said this in a low voice, yellow eyes scanning the boyish nobleman warily, the note in his tone one of warning.  Fabrizio merely waggled his eyebrows in mock-intimidation at Clarice, dark eyes sparkling, and grinned again.

"All right, all right, I get the point.  I do think, _mia Francese bella rosa_, that your good escort would rather have me take myself off now – however, I do hope that he won't keep you shut in all during your stay here in our lovely city of Milan?"

Clarice smiled in her unknowingly alluring way.

"Perhaps."

Fabrizio returned her smile with a flash of his own brilliant grin.

"Then perchance I may count on you both to come sightseeing in the city with me tomorrow?  If it doing so would be to your pleasure?"

The Count shook his head gently and replied, "I am truly sorry, my friend, but I am not much one for sightseeing.  The lady might find it to her liking, however."

He then turned away slightly, and Clarice gazed at his strong, angular profile for a moment, a line of worry forming between her curving eyebrows.  They had been in the sight of many people on several occasions during their journey, and only that morning he had walked freely among the nobles at Sforzesco Castle…what did _this mean?_

But she had no more time to think upon it.  

She found herself compelled to forget her concern for her dear friend's sudden strange words and instead reply to the handsome young Duke that she would much enjoy a tour of Milan with him.  He was completely thrilled by her acceptance of his invitation and soon left them.  Not long afterwards, the Count informed her that he must go seek out the object that they had come to Milan in search of – the third piece of the puzzle – and they returned inside.  

There, they parted ways, and Clarice spent the rest of the afternoon in silent, contemplative thought.

*                       *                       *

One morning, two weeks later, found Clarice on her hands and knees, on top of an old gray tarp that had been spread out in the huge drawing room that fronted the Count d'Auberie's chambers, examining a huge marble statue of Julius Caesar.  She was quite liberally covered in dust – both from the statue and the tarp – and even had a smudge of the gray film on her cheek and the tip of her petite nose.

She was so deep in thought that it took her a moment to sense the presence of her partner-employer in the room, but when she did, she gave no indication of being startled by that.  Instead, she spoke, without looking up.

"_Buon giorno, signor.  How are you today?"_

There was silence from the Count for a moment.

Finally, "I am very well, thank you, milady.  How are you?"

Clarice allowed herself a wry little self-deprecating laugh.  "Well, aside from being covered in marble dust, with a brain aching from so much thought?  I am very well also, my lord.  Would you like to know what I've decided Monsieur _le Caesar_ is meant to tell us – or anyone else with similar objectives to ours?"

She looked up then, through the crooked arm of the ancient Roman ruler, and saw him through the space.  He was leaning up against the wall nearby, arms folded and one leg hooked over the other, nonchalantly supporting him.  His garb was all black and white that day, and his mask was flat, give-nothing black porcelain.

And for the first time since they had met, she found it rather unnerving.

But was it the mask's seeming menace that gave her this feeling, or the strange expression in his eyes?

After a moment of this, the Count nodded, slowly, and she turned back to her work, gesturing to it as she explained.

"Early records of the country of Germany show that it was first inhabited, in its northernmost regions, by any given number of primitive, nomadic Germanic tribes, at around five hundred B.C.  By the time one hundred B.C., these people had advanced upon the mainland of the country and had settled in its central and southern regions.  These were divided into three main groups, which were all themselves separated from the Roman world by the Rhine.  There were several attempts by the Romans to take control of the Germanic people, but none really succeeded."

She paused, and stood up, placing one hand on the left foreleg of the statue's carven stallion, upon which Julius Caesar proudly rode: one hand holding a long spear, the other placed firmly on his chest, in a sort of salute.

"Julius Caesar was one of the many Romans to tangle with the Germanic people, but the exception in his case was that he won a victory over them – he defeated the Suevian tribe at around seventy B.C., and the boundary of the Rhine between Rome and Germany was then established."

"So, it's obvious who this man is from what he looks like," the Count said, waving a hand airily at the statue, "But what does all this have to do with Germany?"

Clarice merely smiled a secretive little smile.

"Just one moment more of your time, milord – I shall explain." She stepped close to the statue's side and pushed against it a little.  It wobbled, almost precariously, and the Count made a swift, involuntary movement towards her, concerned.  Clarice laughed lightly, and asked him, "Did you not notice yourself how strangely insecure this thing was on its base when you found it – wherever you found it?"

He shot her a look that answered her unasked question.

She really didn't want to know where he had found it.

"I took note of it as well," Clarice continued after a moment. "There is an inner rim at the base of this statue, which keeps it from sitting level.  However, there is a small space on its foundation block," she gestured to this, "Which told me that somehow, this statue is meant to be turned around—"

"So that the two pieces fit together."

Clarice smiled, eyes sparkling.

"Like a puzzle."

Moving once again to the statue's side, she gave the higher portion of it – the part that held the Roman emperor and his mount – a gentle, but firm push to one side.  There was a sound of marble gritting against itself, and then a clunk…as it did exactly as Clarice had predicted.  The Count came forward, interest and awe lighting his formerly dull eyes, and stood by her as she explained the last key piece to the puzzle.

"Not long after I had seen this, I also noticed that his hand there – the one on his chest – was not attached to it.  When I moved the statue, that somehow caused the hand to move, to slide down, revealing this."

And then the Count saw that this indeed was true – Caesar's bent arm had moved, coming away from its former position to show that behind it was written a phrase in the German language – the speech of Germany, where Julius Caesar had once fought against the nomadic tribes.  Julius Caesar and Germany, the connecting link of history in this newest part of the mystery.  And that phrase…

"_Erfolg in Ihren Reflexionen wird zu Sie am besten an der südlichen Zitadelle der Staufer Könige von alt kommen."_

The Count stepped back after reading this, shaking his head in wonder, gazing at the statue with a distant, peculiar light in his yellow eyes.  Clarice looked up at him, glad to see that his dark mood, whatever it meant, had been banished – at least for the time being.  Suddenly, he turned to her and guessed what she had already discovered.

"It's at Harburg Castle."

Clarice nodded.  The fortress that he had just mentioned was one of the oldest and largest castles in all of southern Germany.  Looming high above the river Wörnitz, it had been the home of the Staufer-kings, who had lived in 1079-1272 A.D.  

That was where he would go.

He turned to Clarice and – in a startling, prepossessing moment – they found themselves swimming in the deep, fathomless ocean of one another's eyes.

Then he turned away, withdrawing from her.

"I'll leave as soon as I can."

She remained where she was: the feeling that, somehow, they had almost connected – regained what she felt they had somewhat denied themselves in the last two weeks…and that he had now shunned her.  Helplessly, she made a small gesture with her hands, letting them fall listlessly back to her sides.

"I'll be here waiting for you."

*                       *                       *

_"It's been said that they will wed before the summer is ended, milord…and that _you_ will be the one to give her away at the altar."_

Depression.

Grief.

Pain.

Anger.

Devastation.

"How did it come to this?"

_What were you expecting?_

"I didn't want this."

_What _did_ you want?_

It was the perfect vision: the handsome, prosperous, gentle young Italian duke, living happily with his beautiful, sweet young bride: his white rose of France.

_La rose blanche de France._

_I may be silent and watchful outside…but inside, I am screaming: screaming a ragged, despairing, endless, inhuman scream._

*                       *                       *

A/N:  So, as we have it now, we've got a male lead, a female lead, several secondary characters, a villain, a mystery for a plot, and now a romantic interest.  I'll add on soon, if school, life in general, writer's block, and research don't get in my way.  Thankfully, my library has a great section on European countries, including books on the Renaissance…otherwise I'd be dead by now.  Library and the 'net – my two greatest assets.  

Questions, comments, concerns?  R&r and I will answer back to the best of my abilities!

_*  Incantato, mia signora cara_ – Enchanted, my dear lady.

_*  bianca rosa di Francia_ – white rose of France

_*  mia Francese bella rosa_ – my beautiful French rose

_*  Erfolg in Ihren Reflexionen wird zu Sie am besten an der südlichen Zitadelle der Staufer Könige von alt kommen_ – Success in your reflections will come to you best at the southern citadel of the Staufer-Kings of old.


	12. Plots in the Dark

A/N:  New chapter!  I worked like mad today to get this done, so I hope you all like it.  Please, for the love of human life, for the sake of decency itself, leave me some nice long reviews!  My fingers are just about worn through because of this… 

Disclaimer:  Don't own history.  Bladdee-blah-blah-blah.  Enjoy!

Chapter Eleven  - Plots in the Dark "May I have the pleasure of this dance, milady?" 

At the sound of the voice behind her, Clarice turned around, drawing herself out of her silent, pensive contemplation of the more shadowy regions of the vast ballroom, and smiled wanly at Fabrizio, who had just spoken.

"As always, monsieur, I would be delighted."

With a warm smile on his friendly, attractive features, Fabrizio took the girl's hand and drew her out onto the dance floor, into the sea of other couples that were taking their places for the next dance.  

As Clarice and Fabrizio positioned themselves and the musicians tuned up, Fabrizio looked carefully at his companion.  

The beautiful young French girl's graceful, curving features were normally alight with happiness and some sort of inner mirth, causing her entire being to seem to sparkle…but not tonight.  And not earlier in that day, and not in the day or night before that.  For the past several days, she had seemed as if she was mulling over something in her head, and it was beginning to cast a serious pall over her usual gaiety.  

Fabrizio was not the type of man who simply dismissed women's emotions as simply part of their gender – as with any other person that he came into contact with, he tried to understand what a woman's feelings were, for they were just as real as those of a man.

And hence he voiced his concern.

"Claire…" 

During the time that they had spent in one another's company in her stay at Sforzesco Castle, they had become fast friends – as was both their wont – and they had quickly taken to calling each other by their first names.  

Not seeming to have heard him, Clarice continued to gaze off into the mass of courtiers and nobles around them, her green eyes distant.

He was certain that something was wrong now – she was always extremely alert about everything.  Gently, he freed one of his hands from hers and moved it to her chin, turning her face towards him and tipping it up, so that he could look into her eyes.  

"Claire," he repeated, and then she seemed to at last become aware of him.  Her eyes fluttered closed and she shook her head slowly, as if clearing off some sort of daze.  Fabrizio watched her, still concerned.  

Then, "Oh…yes, Fabrizio?"

He stepped away from her, his hand moving to take hers, and drew her off of the dance floor.  Clearly, there was something on her mind, something that was troubling her, and he deeply desired to help her with it, if he could.  

Once they were away from the dancers, standing beneath the pillars that surrounded the ballroom, he gazed earnestly into her eyes.  

"You know, you've been acting very strangely these last few days," he told her, his voice soft.  Good friends as they had become, he did not feel the need to hesitate about broaching the subject of her melancholy air to her. 

"Claire, what is troubling you?"

Her green eyes rapidly moved to look up into his, and for a moment, he saw something flicker within them, like a flame somewhere in the midst of a deep, green forest.  

And then, before he could think about what it meant, it was gone.  

She turned her head aside, providing him with an extensive view of her elaborately styled hair – done in the mode of the Italian ladies, who preferred to display their own locks rather than hide them as the English and French women did.  He heard her reply through the shadows.

"It is nothing…nothing, I tell you.  Fabrizio, don't concern yourself for me…"

He put both of his hands on her shoulders, feeling the warmth of her silky skin through the delicate, transparent gauze of the sleeves of her gown, and turned her gently but firmly towards him.  

"I don't want you to tell me that I should not be concerned for you.  Don't you know _anything_ of how I feel for you?" His voice became even more earnest, and he asked, leaning towards her and lowering his voice, "What is bothering you, _mia bianca rosa_?  Is it those awful lady courtiers?  Has someone vexed you?  Please, you must tell me; if anyone has been unkind to you, I will attend to it!"

Clarice finally looked back up at him, and this time, she was smiling gently, almost sadly.  

"You feel this way…for _me_?"

Fabrizio reached down and took her hand in his, rubbing his thumb across the back of her hand, squeezing it warmly.

"There," he said. "Does that not prove it to you?  I care for you deeply, _cara bella_ – I am your friend, and I will not see you hurting, or in any sort of trouble.  If you will speak of what is on your mind, I will listen, and I will try to help as I may…and if it is not your wish to tell me of it, then I will let it go at that."

Then he shook his head, the mirth leaving his eyes for the first time in their acquaintance.  His next words were whispered.

"But don't tell me not to care for you."

They were silent then for several long moments, wordless, with the music of the ball playing cheerfully in the background, the chattering voices, whirling clothing, and clicking shoes gradually ebbing back into their minds, recalling them to reality.  Then, finally, Clarice sighed and shook her head.

"You can never understand some people, Fabrizio…"

And then he knew what it was – what had been troubling her.

"It's him, isn't it?" he asked, serious and grim. "It's Erik."

_Erik.  _How much more had he been in her life than Fabrizio, and yet she still felt as if she hardly knew him?  And now, Fabrizio seemed to be increasingly more in her life, whilst the Count seemed to fade.  She wanted to reach out and grab hold of him, and drag him back out of the encroaching darkness, bring him to the light and make him _live_.

_Erik._  She had yet to even call him his real name.

She caught herself up on a choking sob.

"Yes – it's him."

And all at once she melted into the young Duke's arms, as any young girl would when her friend was there to comfort her; Fabrizio held her for a moment, and then he said softly, "Let's delay our time at the fete for a while, _bella rosa_.  Come with me."

Clarice nodded, her green eyes glistening like emeralds with the floods of tears that she held within them, and let her friend lead her out of the room and into a salon of sorts.  There, Fabrizio seated her on one of the low couches that had been set about the space and left her for a moment to retrieve something for her to drink.  

When he had seated himself on the couch beside her, he was quiet for a moment, and then he said, "Tell me."

She glanced at him briefly, and then turned her gaze to the filmy, voluminous skirts of her ball gown, which shimmered about her in pale, wispy layers of delicate lavender, blue, and silver material, adjusting the hang of its various adornments.  As she did so, she finally spoke.

"He's very…enigmatic.  Isn't he, Fabrizio?"

The young Duke nodded, in solemn agreement.

"That's the least you could call 't, milady," he replied. "I've known him for what seems to be the better part of my life – which isn't that much to speak of anyway, just nineteen years – and yet I still feel as if I…"

"Hardly know him." Clarice joined in.  At his quietly surprised look, she shrugged and said, simply, "I feel the same."  Then, she sat up straight again, green eyes flicking up to gaze at the vaulted, frescoed ceiling, her head cocking slightly to one side.  

"And yet…yet I also feel as if I know more about him than anyone else…as if he's decided to show me things about him that no one else has ever seen."

Fabrizio nodded.

"He is a special friend…no?"

Clarice nodded, distantly.

"A _very_ special friend." Her next words were almost lost in the darkness and silence of the room. "_My first friend_."

A pause.

"But now, suddenly…it seems as if he is…I don't know – angry with me, or whatnot, although I cannot think of why.  I cannot recall whether I might have done something to offend him…"

"You would not deserve to receive such an impression from him even if you _had_ done such a thing!" Fabrizio retorted, passionately. "First of all, because he is a gentleman, and that is _not_ the way ladies are to be treated, and secondly – and more importantly – because you are _you_.  It is simply unimaginable, and next to impossible, that he would treat you cruelly because of something you had done."

"But if I _have_ offended him, I would deserve it!" Clarice fired back, cheeks flushing in protest, eyes lighting.

"That is not his nature, Claire." Fabrizio placed his hand on top of hers, gazing into her eyes earnestly. "You've not offended him, and he would not punish you by treating you aversely if you had.  It must be something else."

Her green eyes held his for a moment longer, then dropped.

"I hope, _and pray_, that is so," she murmured.

Fabrizio leaned forward, feeling desperately compelled to comfort the beautiful maiden who sat beside him, consumed by grief and worry that her friend – her dear friend – was angry with her, and had thus left her alone.  

"Claire…" he said, and she looked at him…

Suddenly, they heard footsteps approaching and voices – those of two men – nearing the door.  Clarice suddenly stiffened, alarming Fabrizio.  "Clarice, what is it—" he began, but her next words cut him off.  

"_The Marquis de Mercier_!"

And she hastily grabbed a hold of the confused duke's sleeve and literally hauled him out of the main part of the room, and into the shadows behind a recessed portion of the wall.  There, with the both of them pressed up against the wall, Fabrizio stared at her, aghast at this seemingly strange behavior from his beautiful companion.  

"Clarice!"

She clamped a small, slender little hand – a hand that seemed so fragile, so light and hummingbird-like at times – over his mouth, effectively silencing him, hissing, "Shh!  They're coming in here!"

And Fabrizio could do nothing more – she had her elbow pressed up against his diaphragm, and somehow he got the idea that if he made any noise or effort to depart, therein disobeying her, she would have no compunction about jamming that elbow into his stomach.  So he receded and was quiet.

Once, during their stay in Milan, the Count, his manservant Jean-Pierre Colbert, Clarice, her handmaid Chlöe, and Fabrizio had had a rather unpleasant run-in with the Marquis de Mercier one day on the tennis court.  The Marquis had been all suavity and elegance, but Clarice could not rid herself of the disgusted feeling that she had received when the handsome young noble had greeted her.  She remembered all-too-vividly the way her hand had felt as if they had just touched something slimy and reptilian after he had kissed it upon their initial introduction.  She had sensed a similar vibe from the Count, who had seemed very much loath to speak with his fellow Frenchman.

And now, she and Fabrizio were trapped in a room that the Marquis was about to enter, with no way to make an escape without encountering him.  

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall, hoping that they would not be sighted and that she could simply ignore whatever scene was about to happen.  Beside her, Fabrizio was as silent as she, seeming to have sensed her unfriendly air, and beyond them, the door of the room was pushed open, admitting two newcomers.

"It took you long enough to get here!" 

Clarice recognized the smooth, but vilely arrogant tones of the Marquis de Mercier.  

He seemed to be angry about something. 

"I hope you have a good excuse for causing me to wait for so long – do you realize how suspicious it seems that I have hardly been at the ball this evening, when I promised that I would be in attendance?"

"Pardon, my lord," came the unappreciative, grumbling reply of the Marquis's companion, "But I will have you know that it is not _my _fault that our meeting was put in delay!  If your friends would have been a bit less concerned with _protocol_—"

"Silence!"

Clarice could just imagine the Marquis's slender, elegant hand flying up from his side to punctuate that word, stiff with anger.  There was silence for a moment, and then, with urbane, oily calm, "Now listen.  If we are to do this, we mustn't go about arguing about who has made what mistakes.  We _all_ have our faults.  Agreed?"

Grudgingly, "Agreed."

"Very good."

Clarice wanted to choke on the horrible, saccharine sweetness of the Marquis de Mercier's voice.  Instead, she simply clenched her teeth and closed her eyes.

_Leave, blast you!_

Not too lady-like, but that couldn't be helped.

Meanwhile, the conversation continued. 

"Now…are you certain that he intends to leave on the morrow?"

"Yes, my lord.  We heard him say so."

"Are your men ready?"

"I am not certain, milord."

There was a sudden, tense silence, and then – suddenly – that void was broken by the sound of glass shattering, liquid splashing, and then the roar of the flames in the fireplace, which brightened the room for an instant.  Clarice and Fabrizio winced back, startled, and then the Marquis's voice railed, in barely controlled irritation, "Why ever not?  This will be simple!  Like – like stealing candy from a child…it couldn't get any easier if you tried to make it so!"

"My men think not.  The last time that you told us stealing something from him would be easy," _Stealing?_  Clarice's heart thudded in her chest in a sickening, awful instant.  The Marquis de Mercier…was a thief?  Was in the company of thieves?  She glanced quickly at Fabrizio, whose expression mirrored the same thoughts.  Clarice then decided to listen more closely to the conversation.

"…two of my men wound up caught – they are now in an English prison awaiting trial on charges of theft and piracy.  Now what do you say to that?"

There was a soft, throaty laugh from the Marquis at that point: a laugh full of cold, malicious, and utterly cruel mirth.  Clarice shuddered.

"It was their own fault then." The mood instantly became deadly serious. "Now, listen to me – you and your men are to go to the border between Germany and Switzerland and wait by the roadside, and when the Count d'Auberie makes his appearance, you _will_ strike."

_Erik!  NO!_

Everything seemed to move in slow motion around her; a heavy weight was pressing upon her breast and her breath came slow and sluggish.  She felt as if she was choking, pinned to the wall by some heavy weight, unable to move or even think – only capable of listening to the rest of the horrible, maddening conference.

"Impossible," came the other man's reply. "He has the reflexes of a tiger.  There will be no taking him against his will."

"He will never expect it," the Marquis's suave, reptilian voice assured. "He won't even know what hit him…until it's too late."

A pause.

"Now go."

Clarice was only barely aware of the sound of the other man's departure, and then, moments later, that of the Marquis as well.  But when the room was empty at last, except for the two young courtiers, she still could not find the power to make herself move – to rouse herself from her horrified, paralyzing stupor.

_The Marquis…the road from Germany…the border…too late…!_

She felt hands coming to grasp her arms, drawing her away from the wall and making her stand straight on her feet once again, heard Fabrizio's worried young voice saying her name again and again, trying to reach her.  And then she came out of the awful daze and into the even more appalling reality.  The Marquis de Mercier was in league with thieves – and he had just plotted in the dark to capture her dearest friend!

"Fabrizio, we've got to warn him…warn him…we've got to tell him, make him stay away…we've got to help him, before it's too late – too late…"

*                       *                       *

Rescues are very odd things.

One can never predict what such a thing will involve, and, more often than not, it turns out to be completely different than anyone could expect.

An example of this occurred on a searing hot July day in Italy: in Milan, to be more exact, and in one of its more desolate and despicable corners.  This side of the city rarely saw any person who was wealthier than a middle-class merchant, but on one particular day, it was host to a pair of young visitors, fresh from the court at Sforzesco Castle.  Of course, these two had taken the proper precautions to avoid being recognized as nobility, but their true identities were quite apparent in their manners and speech.

One was a pleasant-looking young man: a native Italian.  His companion was a beautiful young French girl.

It was Fabrizio de Luca and Clarice Boisvert.

And what had drawn them out of their natural element, and into the most disreputable regions of Milan?

The answer to that lies in the events of a fortnight past.  Clarice had, one afternoon, been out with Fabrizio and her handmaid, sightseeing once again in the bright, enchanting streets of upper class Milan.  As she waited for Fabrizio to come out of the patisserie that they had briefly stopped in to, she found herself greeted by a rather strange-looking character, who appeared as if he belonged in an altogether different walk of life.  

This individual approached her cautiously, bobbing hasty, almost nervous little bows, as if he expected that she would turn on him and, like the goddess that she easily resembled, strike him down with the lightning of her beautiful green eyes.

"M'lady?"

She had turned, and thence received a brief message: she was awaited, in a certain inn somewhere in Milan, by someone who very much desired to speak with her.  She must got there straight and attend to this matter.  When she asked who this person was, she was startled – frightened – by the reply.

It was her uncle, Felix Boisvert.

Just in the nick of time, when she most needed him, Fabrizio had come out of the shop with their purchases, and she had turned to him, seeking the reassurance of his quiet, understanding strength.  

The young duke roundly questioned the messenger, and, at length, it was established that the sender of this summons was indeed M. Boisvert.  However, Fabrizio was reluctant to let Clarice take herself off to the darker side of Milan.  From what he had gathered, Felix Boisvert was not the most terrific person to have dealings with, and he certainly did not remotely like mysterious messages from doubtful sources.  But, it was, in the end, decided that to this inn they would go.

And so they did.

The inn was a dusty, murky place, with scarcely a soul to boast the patronage of.  Fabrizio stepped out of the carriage they had arrived in with a look of supreme loathing and suspicion on his handsome young face.  He turned briefly to Clarice, reaching out a hand to her so that she might exit the carriage. 

"Claire, I must say – I _don't_ like this.  Not one bit."

The girl looked around herself, pulling her scarf more closely about her face and head, seeming to withdraw from her filthy surroundings slightly, in spite of her firm, unbending, stiff-upper-lip resolve.

"Neither do I, Fabrizio…but it really can't matter."

And then they went inside, after Fabrizio had paid their driver and instructed him to wait for their return.  They were greeted by a weathered, grim-looking older man: the innkeeper, doubtless, who stood behind the kitchen bar, eyeing them sourly as they came in through the door.  

Fabrizio stepped forward, removing the hood of his cloak and asking as he did so, "Pardon, signor – we seek the French merchant Felix Boisvert." 

He glanced Clarice, who was surveying the room in silence, half turned away from him.  Then, quickly – almost desperately, "Can you tell us where we can find him?"

The Italian innkeeper glared at him from under shaggy eyebrows for a moment longer, then turned his head aside and spat contemptuously into a barrel that was behind the bar.  Fabrizio winced, but it was scarcely noticeable.

"Yes, we've got a merchant Boisvert here," was the growling reply.  

Clarice's head instantly turned back towards him, her green eyes lighting up with hope that this mission was not entirely in vain.  The merchant glared at her balefully then, and continued, "He's upstairs in the west garret room – you'll have to find your own way there, though, and only the girl's supposed to go up."

Fabrizio started forward at this, livid, and the innkeeper held up a hand, not to be swayed by the boy's anger.

"Only the girl.  _You_ – wait here."

With that, he turned and shuffled off, disappearing from the bar into the murky depths of the kitchen, and Fabrizio faced Clarice, despairingly. 

"Claire, I'll not have you traversing this place alone!  If you think for one moment that I'll leave you to go up there—"

She stepped forward and put a finger to his lips, silencing him.  "Fabrizio, please – thank you for your concern for me, but I can manage myself." Then she subtly patted the part of her skirt that was nearest to its waistline and hinted, "I learned a few things from the Count back in France."

Then she left his side and went off to the flight of stairs that led up into the further regions of the inn.  Fabrizio watched her go, and then flopped down in defeat and heavy concern into one of the dining chamber's chairs.

*                       *                       *

Meanwhile, Clarice had made her way up the dark stairs and down the hall, searching for the west garret room.  She finally came to the end of the hall, where she found what had to be the aforementioned chamber.  She paused outside the door, a million doubts, worries, and questions whirling in her mind.  Why was Felix in Italy?  Had he somehow tracked her there?  And what did he want?  Was it not enough for him that he was rid of her…?

And then she knocked lightly on the door.

"Come in."

The voice that hailed her was unquestionably her uncle's: she had no doubts about that.  Thus emboldened by the knowledge that she was now facing familiar territory, she put her hand to the doorknob and turned it, pushing the door open, and entered the room.  All was empty within: the curtains at the windows were worn and old, hanging in tattered yellow remnants before the dusty glass panes.  She felt her brow furrow.

"Uncle?"

"Confound it girl!  You don't have to be so blasted loud about it, you little tromping elephant."

_What irony._ Clarice felt her lips twist at the name that she had just been called.  It had been used in reference to her person before, but only in a much different manner.

And with that, her uncle stepped forward out of the shadows at the back of the room.  Clarice drew herself up with the proud air of resolute, elegant coldness that she had learned to take on in such situations from her time at court.  Her complexion turned completely white, making her eyes seem all the darker, her lips all the more crimson.  Felix eyed her, looking as if he was confronting a venomous snake.

"Well, aren't you the pretty little puffed-up courtier, all a-flounce and a-flutter with ribbons and lace and dainty little posies?" her uncle sneered, unkindly. "I am honoured that you deign to bring your presence down to such mere mortals as me!"

"Speak your business, uncle, or I shall have done with this conference." Clarice said, coldly.

"My business?  Oh – but _of_ _course_!"

Clarice suddenly felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickling with the dawning sensation that something was very, very wrong with the scene before her.

She had been tricked.

And, as if to prove all that, she found herself roughly grabbed by the arms and hauled backwards, someone's large, calloused hand clamping down over her mouth.  She struck out at her assailant, kicking, scratching, biting, wriggling like an eel, but it was no use.  Within moments, she was subdued by two hooded men, and saw that more had appeared out of the darkness.  Her green eyes glared at her uncle: _You did this!_

Felix just stood there, watching, and Clarice then saw one of the men in the room – there were seven now, she saw – move away from his comrades and come towards her.  

"You sent word to the Count d'Auberie, warning him that he was to be waylaid along the road back from Harburg, didn't you?" a rough voice demanded.  When she didn't give any answer to this, the man stepped forward and grabbed her arm, twisting it back and around until tears sprung up into her eyes with the pain, his other hand clamping onto her face, fingertips digging into her cheeks.  Through the blur of pain, she heard the question again, "_Didn't_ you?"

She made a movement with her head, and he released her face.  Clarice moved her jaw, trying to alleviate the soaring pain in it, and then she glared into the eyes of her hooded interrogator.

"You go back to the underworld where you belong!"

The man made a strangled sound of rage, and pulled back his arm; Clarice turned her head to one side, steeling herself for what was coming—

And then there was a crashing sound: a sound of splintering wood and booted feet thudding on the floor as two male figures came hurdling into the room, swords drawn.  

The men who held Clarice were the first to be the brunt of the attack: they were both slashed by the sword of the taller man – none other than Erik, the Count d'Auberie himself – and then dealt a swift kick in the gut and shins by the same.  Clarice stepped free from them as soon as she found the hold on her person relinquished and was swiftly, but gently whirled to one side by her rescuer, the Count, who then put her behind himself in safety, backing her towards the door.

"Get outside, milady!" he snapped, yellow eyes focused on his prey within the room.  "You as well, Fabrizio!" 

Clarice did as she was told and found herself shielded from her attackers now by the young Duke, who quite aptly put all of his opponents to rest on the floor, knocked cleanly unconscious.  

The duel inside the room, however, raged on.  The Count was, unfortunately for his attackers, one of the best swordsmen in Europe.

If not the very best.

Soon, all but Felix and the man who had interrogated Clarice were left standing…and then something very shocking happened.

As the Count faced the two of them, breathing hard, yellow eyes still blazing with utterly terrifying fury, the still-hooded man turned on Felix.  "Monsieur, think of God!" were his words – and then he thrust his sword forward—

Fabrizio quickly shouldered his way in front of Clarice, blocking the view into the room through the door, and held her against his chest.  She didn't move, stunned.

There was a dull thud of a collapsing body on the wooden floor.

Silence.

The Count looked at his last standing opponent, a deadly coldness vibrating from him.  Then, "You manipulated him.  You threatened him, forced him to do your bidding, and now you kill him.  If anyone should think of God now, monsieur, it should be _you_."

A rattling, coarse laugh.

"You can't end it now, you know – it's already too late!"

The Count's yellow eyes narrowed.

"It ended a long time ago."

And then everything became a blur: the hooded man lashed out at the Count, who retaliated with a cold, clean efficiency, utterly calm and devoid of emotion.  It was all over within a split second: one swift flick of a silver blade, a flurry of movement, a low moan, and then one last thud, and the room was filled with unconscious – and two dead – bodies.  The Count remained standing with his back to them for one long moment.

Then he turned around, and his wonderful yellow eyes – which were the most beautiful things in the world to Clarice in that moment – locked onto her face.

He opened his arms, Fabrizio released her, she rushed forward.

Silence.  Blissful, safe, passionate silence.

Rescues are very odd things.

One can never predict what such a thing will involve, and, more often than not, it turns out to be completely different than anyone could expect.

*                       *                       *

A/N:  Somewhat of a cliffhanger, but hey!  It's a romance/mystery, and there aren't a whole lot of mysteries that explain everything right off.  (Not the good ones, at any rate…)  And if you've learned anything from my previous writings, none of my romances resolve themselves easily either.  So…here's a promise to write again soon, and now a good night!  Until later, my friends!                

  


	13. Beauty in Pain

A/N:  Hullo everyone!  Yes, I'm back, after a long time of inactivity, writer's block, and (ooh-la-la) traveling!  So sorry I kept you all waiting so long, but I hope to make it up to you now that I've got some more creative juices flowing.  So.  

Rampant:  I LOVE YOU!  Your review was so nice and long, and I do appreciate the suggestions you gave to me.  I had wanted to put another girl into the story, which was why I first mentioned Clarice's maid, Chlöe, but then I put it off because I didn't want to develop a new character at the time.  Chlöe won't have a huge part in here, but she will be featured as a main character of sorts.  Thanks again for the great review, and I hope you find the new developments here to your liking!  

CapturedHeart:  Ah, yes, why were they in Milan indeed.  Well, to put it simply – the Count had the first portrait at his castle, which led them to England, where they found another portrait.  That portrait (the one of Cupid and Psyche, mentioned early on in Chapter 10) had clues in it that pointed to Milan.  I hope that cleared up why they went to Milan…I thought I had explained that in the chapter, but perhaps not…  @_@

NoInferio:  Thank you for commenting on the conversations – it's great to have things like that pointed out, especially since I get so caught up in my writing at times that I tend to not notice whether or not I'm making sense…

And to everyone else:  You all are so great, and I only hope that my writing will give you as much pleasure as all of your reviews have given to me.  Enjoy!  @{--------------    

Disclaimer:  I don't think I need one, and I'm sick of writing them for this.  If you really like them, go back and read one of the twelve or so others that I've done for this story so far.  If you don't like them or just don't really even care, simply read on.  ^_~

Chapter Twelve  - Beauty in Pain 

After that day at the inn, there was a cloud over Clarice's bright, cheerful person, and no one could make her smile in the days that followed it.  But, truth to be told, she really had no reason to be happy, for events in her life seemed to have taken yet another bleak turn.  Her uncle – her sole guardian – was now dead, leaving her and her widowed aunt alone in a world where women were seen as only so much chattel.  

Soon, she would have nowhere to go, and no one to turn to.

Her friends all tried their best to cheer her up, telling her that she wasn't alone, that there was still hope, all was not yet lost.  But what could such words mean to her, when the awful certainty of reality and the coming future still remained?  

Her uncle had betrayed her into the clutches of men who would have surely done her – and those she knew, her dearest friends – some very dire harm.  He had betrayed her, and then he had been killed.  

She now found herself suddenly plunged into a sea of courtly deception, plotting, and cruelty.  There was a scheme afoot at court, which seemed to emanate from one of its most illustrious members – and she was now mired in it.  

How and why this was, she had no idea.  She was simply one of the nameless faces in a crowd: an orphan, and a young girl orphan at that.  Why would her involvement with the Count d'Auberie's mystery concern her in any way…unless someone else was racing against that very nobleman, in order to unravel the puzzle before he did?  There was a fabulous jewel at stake…which made her realize just what her uncle had turned against her for.

Money.

For the sake of further enriching himself, Felix Boisvert had abandoned his wife and turned against his niece.  Perhaps he had been threatened; she didn't know.  Perhaps she would never find out.

*                       *                       *

"I have it on almost certain terms that your letter will reach your aunt in a week…won't you be happy to hear from her again?  And after all this time that you've been away!  We'll have so much fun once she comes to court!  I'm sure that she will find it _most_ to her liking – we'll do all we can to make sure that she's comfortable now…"

It was a warm July night at Sforzesco Castle, and yet another summer festival was being held: a masque ball of truly epic proportions.  

Nobility from all over Europe flocked to Milan and people of all ages, stations, and appearances were to be seen milling about in a colourful cloud in the gardens surrounding the castle.  Bright, ornate decorations had been put up all about and slender, elongated gondola boats had been set into the canals in the city, with costumed keepers to pole them along the silky, dark waters after nightfall.  

There was sounds of music and revelry all about, singing and laughing and dancing, mingling with the natural melodies of the night: the crickets and the soft sighing of the wind through the grass and trees.

Inside the castle, all was decorated as well, but there weren't very many people there; they had all gone outside to enjoy the lovely summer weather.  However, in one of the rooms of the Count d'Auberie's suite, two young women hovered at the windows, not having joined in on the festivities yet.  

One was a pleasant-looking girl of about eighteen years of age, with warm honey-coloured hair and merry gray-blue eyes, and an attractive, oval face.  She was not dressed for masquerade – this was the handmaid Chlöe.   

Her companion, Clarice, was accordingly costumed for the ball, arrayed as a tremendously lovely and graceful white swan.  When Clarice made no reply to her words, Chlöe became concerned for her friend and sat down next to her on the window seat, the merriment leaving her face and letting it become serious.

"Clarice…" she said, softly. "What saddens you now?"

The other girl did not look at her; instead, she turned her head even further away and continued to stare motionlessly out the window.  She had an air of mourning about her, and the paleness of her costume did nothing to alleviate this.  Black was, perhaps, the colour of mourning in some places, but grief was shown by the display of white in others.  

"_Cherie_…"

Then Chlöe was silent for a moment.  Finally, she said, gently, "I know that nothing can ease your grief now, Clarice, but…but you must know that we would share your sadness in this time…it's true for me, for the Count, the Duke Fabrizio…all of us – seeing you so sad makes us all want to relieve you of it, even though we know we can't.  So now all we can ask is…let us share your sadness with you: us, your friends."

Upon hearing this, Clarice finally turned to look at Chlöe: the first girl whom she had ever come to know closely, as what might be called a _best friend_.  The moonlight glanced upon the depths of her wide, emerald green eyes and revealed the brightness of tears in them.  

Chlöe looked upon her with immense compassion in her wide, understanding eyes.  She had led a fairly normal life – she had a mother, a father, a large family of brothers and sisters, all younger than her – and the only unusual thing about her existence thus far was that she was employed in the Count d'Auberie's household.  She had never known a life like that of Clarice Boisvert, but so deep was her devotion and affection for her friend and mistress that she felt hurt by the other girl's pain, and wanted to help her regain her happiness at whatever the cost.

"Oh, Chlöe…" Clarice whispered, her voice breaking over that single word. "I am alone – I have nowhere to turn now.  I cannot expect for anyone to take the burden of caring for me and my aunt upon themselves…the fact that the Count d'Auberie had the kindness to bury my uncle, here in Italy, and help me to get a letter to my aunt, is more than anyone should have to do for me.  After I am done with my time at his house, I will leave – and I know not where I should go then!" 

And she covered her face with her hands and bowing her head, her shoulders flagging.  No one but a personage with the hardest of hearts could resist reaching out towards the object of such abject, woeful pathos, and sweet-tempered Chlöe had anything but a cold and emotionless soul.  With a soothing, compulsory noise, she leaned forward and put her arms around her friend.  

"Shh," she soothed, stroking Clarice's silky, ebony-black hair with the confident ease of one who has quieted and comforted many a young sibling over many a year.  Clarice sat up straight, the initial torrent of tears ceasing, and then Chlöe spoke, looking into her eyes deeply and knowingly, smiling softly.

"Where has the little optimist that I knew gone?  What has happened to the indomitable, irrepressible free spirit that was Clarice Boisvert?  Listen to me now, my girl – this too will pass.  In time, it will go…and you _will_ find your way again."

Then she  got to her feet and brushed her skirts back into order, extending her hand to her friend, and said, "Come – I hear that they will be setting off the fireworks at midnight.  A certain young Italian nobleman was asking me earlier this evening if you would find it to your liking to go to the pavilion with him and watch them be set ablaze."

_This too will pass…_

_In time, it will go…_

_You will find your way again. _

Chlöe's words, set echoing into her mind, worked a curious effect on her outlook towards life at that moment.  Clarice suddenly glimpsed a faint, but insistent and reassuring light at the distant end of the dark tunnel that had been her life.  Her friend was right.  This too will pass.

So she smiled, through her tears, and took the older girl's hand, letting Chlöe pull her to her feet and then shoo her across the room to the door, out into the hallway, and down to the ball.  And before Fabrizio came to her side and claimed her for the rest of the evening, Clarice gave her handmaid – the best friend whom she had thought she could never have in her solitary, introverted life – a quick squeeze.

"Thank you," she whispered.

*                       *                       *

In the shadows underneath the fireworks pavilion, no one was about but for the two young courtiers, the Duke Fabrizio and Lady Clarice.

Or so it seemed.

A shadow moved; something breathed, watching them.

The two took no notice of it, being too involved in their current conversation as they made their way through the crates of elaborate rockets and other explosive wonders, laughing and talking.  The shadow paused, waiting for them to pass by.

Then it moved again.

Still, the two did not see it.

*                       *                       *

Inside of Sforzesco Castle, the Count d'Auberie excused himself from the group of conversing people that he had been a part of and stepped over to a nearby window.  He looked out over the grounds of the place, his yellow eyes searching and concerned behind the mask that he wore.  

Just then, Clarice's handmaid and friend, Chlöe, materialized out of the crowd, seeming to have just returned from a sojourn outdoors in the gardens and looking rather pleased with herself.  The Count beckoned to her shortly and she came to join him at the window, curtseying respectfully to her long-time employer.  

"_Bonsoir_, milord," she greeted, and he distractedly gave her a brief smile and return greeting, still concentrating on the scenery outside.

A tiny frown crossing her features, the Countess came to stand beside him and looked out as well, then asked, "What's toward, _Monseigneur le Comte_?"

The Count finally managed to wrest his eyes from the gardens below, replying pensively, with a note of worry in his tone, "I haven't seen Mlle. Boisvert all this evening, Chlöe.  You wouldn't know where she was, by any chance?"

Chlöe nodded quickly, confidently.

"Yes, I do actually, milord," she replied. "She and the Duke Fabrizio went off a little while ago to watch the firework show from underneath the pavilion where they are to be set off, and they were last seen in the gardens together, walking in that direction.  Why do you look so concerned?"

The Count shook his head then and put on an air to lightly dismiss the matter – although beneath that seemingly nonchalant mien, he still felt himself twisting with worry and even the beginnings of a sickening dread.

"Concerned?  No, I'm all right.  I was just curious about where she might be at this hour – it's rather late and…well, it's probably best that she _is_ with Fabrizio, if she's out at _all_ right now.  Thank you, Chlöe."

He inclined his head in thanks to the girl, his thoughts and emotions completely hidden behind his masquerade disguise.  With another curtsey, Chlöe then excused herself and left him – and the Count turned immediately back to the window once more.  This time, his gaze was even more concentrated, even more worried and intense.  

_Where _is_ she?_

On the whim of a moment, he suddenly put one hand out and unlatched the window, pushing it swiftly open.  The warm summer night breeze flowed in to greet him, making his skin flush with its humidity.  Across the wide lawns of the castle, down by the silky dark waters of the man-made lake, a smooth white tent had been set up: underneath it was stored the fireworks, which were to be set off that night.  This drew his attention oddly – he could almost picture himself, out there, among everyone else, watching the sparkling explosions fill the black velvet sky with their light, shimmering…  

Watching it out there, with Clarice and their friends, and not standing here: inside, haunting the palace like some sort of wraith and avoiding all human company near the hour of midnight when the unmasking would take place.

He began to turn away from the window.

Then the voices started coming.

Distant, they were, at first – and then louder, ever closer, closer…

"Fire!  Fire!"

_What?_

Hearing this, the Count whirled around, back to the window.  What he saw next was completely unnerving: people were running away from the general area of the fireworks pavilion, the men shouting and gesticulating wildly, arms flying in the air and voices raised, as the women shrieked and total pandemonium began to break out.  

The Count felt a horrible, prickling feeling run up the back of his neck then, making his hair feel as if it was standing on end.  His entire frame felt stiff and frozen, yet feverish and trembling all at the same time, increasingly engulfed by the memory of a sensation from long ago…

_Flames licking across his skin, devouring all that was in their path…_

"Fire!  Fire in the pavilion!"

He felt himself come alive again in one awful instant, forgetting the past, and his eyes shot directly to the huge white tent – underneath which there could be seen a strange, horrifying, flickering orange glow…

Clarice!

She was there, with Fabrizio, and there was a fire.

And so, as the swarms of frightened guests made a mad rush away from the enflamed pavilion, in which was kept the explosive potential to level an entire building, the night sky saw one costumed figure – a red and gold Firebird – dashing towards the source of the flames.  Along the garden paths he raced, tearing down any given number of stairs, dodging around fleeing courtiers, intent on one purpose—

He had to get to Clarice.

Each second that passed him by seemed as if it was a lifetime.  In the next instant, the fire could hit the rockets, and nothing could be done then – he would be too late.  He kept running, desperate to reach the girl and her companion before disaster struck.  He had to save them!  He _must_!

The white canvas had already caught fire by the time that he had reached the place.  Horrible, greedy flames roared high up into the sky, seeming as if they desired to devour the entire world and everything within it.  He stared up at it, feeling that same paralyzing sense of dread – of memory – overcome him, freezing him in his footsteps.  _Fire…fire…FIRE!_  

_I can't do it!_ his mind dragged out.  The memories were too awful; the nightmares too powerful, the pain too real.  He couldn't move.  Someone else…

NO!  There _was_ no one else!  No one else knew or cared that a young girl and her companion were trapped underneath the burning wreckage.  If he couldn't save them, no one could!  Memories didn't matter.  Nightmares didn't matter.  Pain didn't matter.  

_Clarice_ mattered.

And so, with a burst of frenzied, superhuman energy, he threw himself forward and into the tent, shielding his face and head from the flames with one arm.  When he was inside, he took that arm away and looked around himself, his eyes beginning to tear up at the onslaught of the stinging heat and smoke.  It was as if he had just stepped into Hades itself.  A living hell where an innocent young child and a harmless young man who had never wronged anyone or anything were trapped.  

"_Clarice_!"

*                       *                       *

Was this it?  Was this how they were going to die?

Fabrizio had fallen to his knees, choking on the thick smoke, and Clarice now tore a wad of fabric from her skirt, handing it to him so that he could put it over his mouth and nose as she did the same.  

Then she peered through the flames about them, trying to see a way out.  

But she could find no such thing – there were too many obstacles in the way: too many crates and other objects.  Trying to weave their way around those things would take too long.  Even if they did try to find a way out, the fire would undoubtedly reach the fireworks before they were safe and cause the place to explode, or the tent would collapse, burying them.

Then—

"_Clarice_!"

She almost thought, for one delirious moment, that the voice whom she had heard calling her name was that of an angel calling her to Heaven – but then, she came back to her senses, to reality, and realized who it really was!

"_ERIK_!" she screamed, wildly.

Oh, if he could only find them – he could get them out!  Surely he could!

"_Clarice_!_  Where _are_ you_?" came his voice again.

But the smoke had reached her lungs.  She felt it stinging in her chest; her eyes were already blurred with tears, her head was swimming with the acrid stench…she dropped to her knees beside Fabrizio, the two of them falling against one another as their strength began to gave out.  She summoned her willpower for one last call…

"_Erik_!"

*                       *                       *

The fire had almost reached the explosives.  He had seconds to go before his rescue attempt was made null and void.  Seconds to go before they were all beyond any sort of help, bar that of an undertaker.

He ran.

Suddenly, there was Clarice, and Fabrizio – both were on the ground, almost unconscious.  The Count dashed over to them and shook the boy roughly, having no time for gentleness, shouting into his ear, "Get up!  Get up, or you'll die, and so will she!  Do you understand me?  _Get up_!"  And Fabrizio stirred.  The Count hauled him to his feet, flinging one arm around Clarice's nearly unresponsive body at that same moment, lifting her off of the ground in one swift movement while keeping Fabrizio standing as well.

Then they ran.

_You've got to get out.  Move, move, MOVE!_ went through his head, repeating itself like some demented mantra.  

The doorway of the tent: the night sky beyond it a black square amidst the devouring flames, loomed before him, seeming to drift a mile away for every step he took towards it.  The beams holding the tent up began to creak and moan ominously.  It would drop at any given second.  Already, debris was beginning to drop everywhere.  A huge wooden plank fell free of its ropes and crashed down in front of him, and Fabrizio – still only partly conscious – started, falling down.  The Count stooped to haul him back to his feet, and just as he had almost moved on again, the plank fell the rest of the way to the ground – pinning his arm to the floor!  

_You can't take me like this!_

Gritting his teeth, he tensed his body and jerked on that arm, pulling himself free.  His arm came out from under the plank with the sound of ripping cloth, and he was instantly assailed by a wealth of the roaring pain of torn flesh and wrenched muscles.  He glanced at the arm briefly, seeing it through a haze of dulling consciousness.  He'd probably broken a few bones as well.  

He ran on again, and finally, they reached the exit of the tent.  But he didn't stop there – from behind him, he could hear the high-pitched whining sound of fireworks that were about to combust.  They weren't safe yet.  

Halfway up the hill that led away from the fireworks pavilion and the lake, he stopped and threw himself to the ground, taking Fabrizio and Clarice with him.  Shielding them all as best as he could, he closed his eyes and—

With a ground-shaking explosion, the fireworks pavilion went up in a bright orange-yellow inferno, a cloud of thick black smoke issuing up from it far into the night sky.  The Count watched it, sweat falling from his forehead and hair into his eyes and stinging them horribly, as he gasped for breath and trembled.

"I did it."

*                       *                       *

As soon as the last flames from the fireworks pavilion had been put out, the ball was called to an abrupt end and all the guests returned to their respective dwellings, all severely shaken by what had to have been surely the most harrowing event in the many long years of the Sforzesco rule in Milan.  And if not the most harrowing, certainly the most explosive, it was said not long afterwards.

Clarice awoke in her own room, her ruined ball gown and jewelry removed and her hair brushed, and was instantly assailed by panic, remembering what had happened.  She threw the covers off of herself and set her feet on the floor, then ran across the room to the door and darted out into the room beyond.  There, she found Chlöe and several other people whom she did not know at all, and Fabrizio.  Her best friend approached her quickly once she had seen her, hands held out in a placating gesture.

"Please, Claire, you must go back to bed – you may not be well, and—"

"Where is the Count?"

Clarice stood where she was, determination causing her pale skin to seem all the more white, and her dark eyes and lips to become all the more pronounced.  Chlöe bit her lip and looked uncomfortable, and then Fabrizio came to join them.  He looked incredibly ill at ease as well: his normally happy face drawn and pale, his eyes dark.

"Claire, the fire…he—"

She didn't wait to hear any more.  Across the room she flew, thrusting her way through the flurrying people before the doors to the next chamber – the Count's own bedroom – and she had her hand on the doorknob before Fabrizio caught up to her.  

"Wait!  Please, Claire!"

Abruptly she turned on him, the cold, hard, rigidity of stubbornness leaving her features as a pathetic, helpless, and very much frightened look of a young girl who was all alone in the world took its place.

"Fabrizio," she said, her voice shaking, "_Please_.  He's all I have left…I…"

The young man looked deeply into her eyes for a moment then, and saw the truth within them: the truth that answered all of his questions.  And, with a soft smile of acceptance and surrender, he nodded.

And let her pass.

*                       *                       *

The people who were at the doors were a mix of both the servants of the Count and those of the Sforzesco family; some were also a small number of doctors and their assistants.  Clarice had long since learned the Count's opinion of most of the physicians of that day and age: quacks, he called them, men not worthy of the exalted title of doctor, who would rather bleed their patient to death for the sake of 'traditional methods' than give him the proper treatment, which was new in method and therefore hailed as witchcraft or worse.  Therefore, she wasn't totally surprised at the scene that met her eyes when she entered the nobleman's chamber.

A number of black-garbed doctors and others stood about the gigantic four-posted bed, all talking and arguing among themselves.  Clarice suddenly heard the cold, clear voice of her friend and employer ring loudly above all the others.

"_Enough_!  Get out, all of you!" 

She ran across the room, pushed the men there aside and flung herself onto the edge of the bed beside the Count.  So sudden and unexpected was her appearance that he was momentarily stunned into silence, and then he asked, incredulously, "Clarice?"

"Oh _Erik_!" she sobbed.  

And now she saw that he had been grievously injured in rescuing her and Fabrizio from the fire: his left arm hung limp and useless at his side, its skin torn and bleeding with the wrist turned to an odd angle.  He had hazarded death for her – he had been wounded for her.  She couldn't imagine what treatments the doctors had put forth for him: what awful remedies they had proposed.  Then someone laid a hold of her arm and made to pull her away from the bedside, as protests at her presence was made.  At this, the Count's eyes blazed a truly frightening yellow in his wrath and he snapped, forcefully, "Let her go – she _stays_!"

His unhurt arm came out and snaked its way around her waist, drawing her close to his side and sheltering her with its embrace.  He was shaking: trembling from head to foot, and fighting for breath, clearly wracked with pain.  She could see that his hair was slick with sweat, as was his skin: the simple white silk shirt that he wore was plastered to his chest with it.  Clarice closed her eyes, trying to calm the dizzying whirl of her mind as she held her head against his firm, hard chest, hearing the continued protest of the doctors, "But Signor!  The girl cannot stay – you must be treated!  If the arm is not—"

"I said _she stays_." the Count said again: his voice ragged and deadly, daring any of them to defy his will.  The gabble of voices ceased for a moment, and then, "Signor, the mask – it must come off – you cannot breathe…"

The Count twisted with another spasm of pain, his features contorting beneath the black porcelain mask, and out of that oblivion came his growling words, "No!  If you _must_ destroy everything else, at _least_ leave me some few shreds of my dignity!"

A long silence followed, in which the only sound was that of the Count d'Auberie's belabored breathing.  Finally, "Very well, Signor."

Someone reached across the bed; a shadow fell over Clarice.  She opened her eyes and looked up at him, into the yellow eyes of her friend: her first and dearest friend.  He had to know now…she would not leave him.  And, as the doctors prepared to put the broken bones in his arm back in place – an agonizing procedure that many feared – the Count let Clarice put her arms around him, resting her forehead against his: both of them closing their eyes in resignation to the moment.

"You're all I have left now," she whispered…

A pause.

"_Don't ever let me think that I might lose you._"

Someone jerked on his arm, he inhaled abruptly: his breath a hiss, and Clarice tightened her hold on him, squeezing her eyes shut, as a single hot, crystalline tear fell out of her eye and splashed onto his neck, coming to rest in the hollow of his throat like a perfect diamond.

There is beauty in pain.

*                       *                       *__

A/N:  I know – this is probably a bit garbled and confusing…I may go back and edit it later, but I'm just going to post it for now and hope that it goes over all right.  Now that I've got the whole Fabrizio/Clarice thing kind of squared away, it leaves the story open for some new *developments*.  And with that I leave you…for now…


	14. Escape, Part 2

A/N:  I return!  In spite of not having gotten much work done on this recently, I do have this latest chapter update (and will hopefully have more soon).  I hope you enjoy what I've written here…it's a bit more lighthearted than usual at points, and we finally learn what caused the Count to have to wear his mask.  I know, I know – you've all been dying to hear the reason behind the whole thing…

**Raal the Sword Master**:  I thought I'd lost you!  ^_~ I am very glad to get your reviews again, and that you've liked my latest additions to this story.  (And I don't mind your 'rushing' me – people saying stuff like that is part of what keeps me writing this thing…pathetic?  I know, but hey…)

**Rampant**:  Hehehe – your play sounds _great_!  I'm on a bad streak about drama right now though…because my family's moving, I'm now unable to be in my own drama class's scaled-down production of Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing, and get this: I was going to be the lead!  Just shoot me now.  Sorry about that, everyone…I really am okay.  _Really_.  Anyways, thank you for your reviews, Rampant – I love that they're so long and tell me about what exactly you liked.  You are _wonderful_.

**Riene**:  Ah, one of my very favorite FFD Phantom authors!  I am honoured by the fact that you've been following along with this story of mine here.  Very honoured indeed.  Clarice knowing about all that art stuff: well, this _is_ the Renaissance period that we're talking about.  The women back then were prided on their numerous accomplishments in the arts, and Clarice was well-schooled, in spite of the fact that she was an orphan and less than extremely wealthy in background.  And she only knew about the art/history/etc. part of her work, not the languages.  If you'd noticed, the Count is the one who does all the translating – the man is fluent in several languages, which is helpful…  ^_~

**Kate, Lis, kinder, and all others**:  Thank you very much for your lovely reviews – they truly make my day!  And now to the story; ENJOY!    

Chapter Thirteen – 

Escape, Part 2

The next morning, Clarice awoke to the distinct knowledge that she was not in her own room; in fact, she had no questions as to where she now was at all, as she remembered her whereabouts quite clearly.  She raised her head from the pillow upon which it had laid, half-buried in the curve of her arm, and smiled wanly but contentedly at her companion.  

She had fallen asleep, half-sitting and half-reclining on the huge canopied bed in the Count's room the night before, after the hordes of doctors and their assistants had left.  And now here she was: in the gray light of early morning, looking quite calmly across the bed to the Count d'Auberie himself, who was surveying her with a gentle, softly-smiling expression in his yellow eyes.  

There was something special about this moment, she knew – something like she had never felt before, never thought she would feel.  Somehow, she didn't feel as if she ought not to be there, with him, and she didn't feel as if she was a nameless little nothing who was being shown kindness by a man vastly her superior in every place and circumstance.  Somehow, it felt right – as if they belonged there.  

Almost as if he had read her thoughts, the Count smiled at her: the expression bittersweet, careworn…and almost hesitant.

"Everything's changed now, you know," he said, simply. "_Everything_."

Then, he reached forward with one hand – his good hand, the one that was not injured – and cupped her cheek in it.  Clarice felt herself tremble and come alive with the thoughts that possessed her mind at his touch, which was strong and deft and knowing and yet uncertain and shy.  She looked into his yellow eyes with her own emerald green gaze and felt her lips curve.

"Yes." she agreed. "It has."

The words were so simple – and yet they both knew that they meant so much.  Finally, the Count sat back, still looking at her intensely, even though his hand did not move from her face, and then his voice drifted to her through the early morning shadows: "Say it again."

She took her eyes from him to gaze out the window, her mind overcome with the wealth of meaning – of importance and poignancy – of the moment.

"What?"

Finally, he forced himself to remove his hand and distance himself from her.

"My name." he told her.  "You called me by it last night…in the fire…" He hesitated. "And _I_ called _you_ Clarice."

He had so indeed.  _She_ had.

Clarice smiled, the expression magnifying her beauty so that she no longer seemed a pale, fresh-bloomed white rose of spring, burst into being by a wayside road, but a diamond whose facets had just caught a full beam of the glorious sun.  

He couldn't take his eyes off of her.  

"Erik." she said.  Then, as if the sound of his name on her lips – his _true_ name, and not his title – somehow both startled and pleased her, she laughed, as a sixteen-year-old is wont to do, and sat up straight, her entire being seeming to scintillate with a resounding happiness.

"Erik."

An impossibly white grin splitting the face behind the mask, he sat forward, holding out his hand; she put hers within it and they faced each other, both grinning uncontrollably at this strange, wonderful new thing that they had found together.  

Nothing else mattered now, she realized – not her uncle's death, not the plots and mysteries that surrounded them at court, not the whispers of others, not the memories or even the reality of her old life and the bearing that it still threatened to have on her.  Nothing.  Nothing but the two of them.

Erik and Clarice.

*                       *                       *

It was ordered that the Count d'Auberie should remain a-bed still a few days so that he might make a full recovery.  Much as he did not like this, however, Erik obeyed – his vexation at being held prisoner because of a simple arm injury only tempered by Clarice's willing presence.  She was only too happy to remain with him in his solitude, having missed him dreadfully when she had had to be always with other people during their stay in Milan.  

The next few days flew by swiftly and without much event to enliven them.  The Count's doctor – or rather _doctors_, as there were several who wished to attend upon the fantastically rich and powerful French nobleman for whatever reason they could find – gave orders that he was not to exert himself overly much, lest he relapse into a sickness, and so neither he nor Clarice saw many outsiders during his recovery.  But it was no matter to either of them.

They were perfectly happy having no one but each other for company.  

And, of course, every once in a while, Fabrizio would stop by to plague Erik with his lack of activity and to talk with them both, amusing them with his wit and all-around companionable ways.  

There was, of course, a moment of unspoken understanding between the two men on his first visit: a sort of silent agreement, a transfer of knowledge; for now Fabrizio knew that Clarice was not in love with him, nor would she ever be.  Her affections for him were those of a sister for her brother, or at the very least a dear friend.  However much he might have felt for her was never a subject that they broached again – Fabrizio had seen the truth in her eyes that night, in the desperate light of their emerald depths, in the tears reflected there.  And he heartily appauded her choice.  

Erik was silently thankful to the boy for this display of manly selflessness and noble friendship.  Any lesser man would not have given up such a jewel, such a fair prize, without a duel to the death.  

But Fabrizio was young, and he knew it.  

He had much time to choose his future mate, and although he wished that he could have attained the love of so dazzling a creature as Clarice Boisvert, he knew that he was not meant for her.

Meanwhile, Clarice's work on the newest piece of the artistic puzzle went on.

The piece that Erik had brought back from the castle in Germany was a huge, silvery-black mirror, one like to that the ladies of court liked to hang upon their boudoir walls.  It was rectangular in shape, with a thick, much-embellished frame detailed with the shapes of scrolling vines and sharply contoured roses, with words written here and there in it, and spaces cut into it as well, seeming almost as if they had been meant to hold candles…  

Clarice could not make any sense of what this object was supposed to tell her.  

Where was the hidden meaning in a looking glass with nothing but roses and vines as decoration, and a few odd phrases written in their native French for words?  '_Look into my depths for enlightenment_,' those words told the one who viewed them…what could this mean?  The phrase seemed to have no more portent to it than any other phrase that might be found written on a mirror's frame.

But examine it she did, for any other type of hidden mysteries within it or about it, although no such thing appeared wont to turn up, and eventually the presence of the huge looking glass made for a long-delayed discussion between Erik and his young companion…

*                       *                       *

"I can see you back there with this thing – making faces at me is _very_ distracting to my work, you know."

This was said by Clarice to Erik, who was becoming bored with the silence in the room as she was hard at work examining the mirror, yet again, and had decided to see if crossing and uncrossing his eyes, and contorting the visible parts of his face into every other way would catch her attention.  He shifted position suddenly on the sofa that he was reclining on, restless, and commented to her, "Well, I wouldn't be making faces at you if you would just _talk_ to me.  I fear that I am soon like to run mad with the quiet of this room.  Now _please_!"

Clarice stood, smoothing her skirts as she did so and chuckling as she shook her head wryly at his words.  Then she came to stand over him, beside the cough.

"And this from the noble Count d'Auberie: the epitome of the ever-courteous, eternally occupied Renaissance nobleman?  My lord, I'd have thought _better_ of you!" she pretended to chide, her slender white hands flying to rest on her hips: affecting the position of a mother who was scolding her mischievous child roundly for something that he had done.

Erik grinned up at her, pleased that he had finally succeeded in getting her attention.  He was, in fact, surprised at himself – at his own attitude.  

How shocked would he have been several months before, when he had not yet come to know her, if someone told him the words of the conversation that he was holding with this beautiful sixteen-year-old girl right at this moment?  How unwilling to believe that his life could really be changed – be made better – by _anyone_?  And yet now it was!  

Suddenly, he found himself in the midst of a complete change in circumstances.  Not a month before, he had been prepared to deny everything that his heart had ever told him concerning Clarice and his feelings for her because it seemed as if she was meant for another.  He had never expected that her smile – her sweet, unabashedly happy, guileless young smile – would be turned upon him, and that it would warm his heart like a shard of ice that the sun has at last found its way to.

He had never expected any of this.

Beside him, Clarice stirred and suddenly reached out to tap the tops of his knee-length leather boots, reminding him with an impish smile, "Feet off of the sofa, milord."

With a sigh and a baleful look shot in her direction, he obeyed, swinging his feet to the floor and sitting up straight as he did so, being careful not to move his recuperating arm – which had been set into a sling, so that he could walk about and live at least somewhat normally in the wake of his injury.  

Then he looked across the room at the mirror.

"So, m'lady…" he said, gently: all jesting leaving his tone. "Anything?"

Clarice sighed, shaking her head wearily as she left his side and returned back across the room, to stand in front of what was the embodiment of her most furious frustrations recently.  

"Nothing more than I have already seen, Erik," she said, her voice deploring the unbreakable secrets of the mirror and the mystery at that point. "I don't understand – what can I _possibly_ be missing?  I saw the clues behind the Julius Caesar statue with infinitely more ease than any in this silly mirror!  What am I missing?"

She was distressing herself, and seeing her unhappiness pained him as well.  Anxious to comfort her, he got to his feet and came to stand behind her, placing his good hand on her shoulder: so straight and firm and yet so delicate and small, bowed down now with the depressing weight of futile searching and effort.  Lowering his head, he softly brushed the ebony-black top of her head with his lips, his fingers squeezing her shoulder reassuringly, as his yellow gaze moved to survey the flat, give-nothing silver-black depths of the mirror before them, the expanse of which was enough to hold both of their reflections.  

"Hush, softly now, _ma belle_," he said, his voice a calming murmur against her head, although he never took his eyes from the mirror. "You'll find it – _we'll _find it.  Together, or not at all."  

Then he used his grip on her shoulder to turn her around, making her face him, and he looked deep into her eyes, scrutinizing her pale, lovely face.  

Clarice drew a shuddering intake of breath, gazing up at him, and then she stepped forward, closing the gap between them, her arms coming up from her sides to lock about his waist, which was at about her reaching distance anyway, and drape there: familiar and confident.  Her head buried itself against his chest, against the cool silken shirt that he wore, and Erik moved his own hand to stroke her flowing hair, even as he breathed in himself to still the frantic beating of his heart at her touch.

"Together." she repeated, breathing the word.  Then, she raised her head a fraction of an inch and looked over the curve of her shoulder, back to the mirror: a suddenly thoughtful expression on her face.  Erik followed her gaze and saw that she was looking at their reflection there, as he had only moments before.   

"What an interesting pair they are." she commented, without fuss or preamble.

He chuckled dryly, deep in his chest, and shifted his hold on her so that they could look into the mirror together and yet still remain in one another's arms.

"You speak truly, fair one," he replied, "But I myself must ask whether the man there – the tall, thin creature dressed all in black – _truly_ belongs there…with the angel of indescribable beauty, dressed all in white?  They couldn't be more different."

Clarice's arms moved against him as she rearranged her hold on him.

"No…they couldn't." she agreed. "And that is why they belong together."

_They belong together…_

Her words seemed to magnify in volume and intensity, echoing in his mind until they became a glorious cacophony of sound within his head, threatening to overwhelm him and break down every barrier that he had ever erected there in order to keep out thoughts of that awful day, long ago, when he had first become another man.  He suddenly sighed a long, shuddering sigh, full of pain, and Clarice felt it.  Turning in his embrace, she looked up at him: her face lined with concern for him.  

"Erik?" she asked, uncertainly almost.

Clearing off his thoughts – or trying to – he shook his head briefly, closing his eyes for a moment, and then he told her, "It's all right.  It's…nothing."

Then her hand came up and gently placed itself on the side of his face, resting against the cold black porcelain of his mask.  Erik closed his eyes against that touch, knowing what was now coming.  How could he tell her…

"Erik." Clarice's voice said: softly and gently. "How did it happen?"

He sighed again, that sigh as deep as a storm wind, and released her, his hand moving to take one of hers within it, and he led her after him: out of the room and out of doors.  The mid-morning sky above them was varying shades of gray that day; a summer storm would come sometime, and drench everything beneath the sky with the warm tears of the clouds.  There was no one about on the garden paths that day.  All was silent and reflective, and solemn.  

At length, he stopped them: gazing ahead of himself with eyes that were hard and blank with pain and memory, staring off into a distance that was not there.  

Then he spoke.

"It was…a very long time ago.  Years ago – when you would have been naught but a babe." He stopped, his gaze dropping from that impenetrable distance and focusing on the ground at their feet, bittersweet and full of remembrance. "I was…in a fire."

He could be only too sure of her horror.         

"It was like…like being trapped in hell…no way out: no escape, just flames everywhere, all over me, eating me…"

An awful, freezing ripple went over his skin as he remembered this, and he squeezed his eyes shut against it, as his throat tightened and closed with a knot of agonizing memory – of the pain, of the shock and denial.  Of the knowledge that he was now forever more set apart from all of humanity, because he was – unlike normal, whole, and healthy people – disfigured.  He managed to choke out his next words over the overwhelming pain.

"It was…_horrible_!"

Clarice made a sobbing sound and then they reached for one another, and held each other.  And they didn't let go for a very, very long time.

*                       *                       *

The storm broke, in all its fury, and the pair was forced to run for the castle.  When they had returned to the Count's chambers, Erik helped Clarice brush the raindrops from her dark hair – or helped as much as he could, considering his still-useless arm – and then he went off to summon a midday repast for the both of them.  

On re-entering their suite, he found that she was sitting in the window seat in his room, where she no longer hesitated to enter since the night of the masque ball.  Erik approached her silently, seeing that her profile – the part of her face that was not turned to the window, hiding her expression – was pensive and dark.  Then he stood behind her, looking out the window as well, while lines of pelting rain drove across the grounds of Sforzesco Castle: lightning giving a flash every once in a while, as thunder rumbled distantly in the gray sky.

Finally, Clarice turned from her appraisal of the storm and spoke, not looking up at him.  "It is awful, Erik," she said.

He felt his heart sinking, falling right out of its proper place in his chest and plummeting right into his boots.  His expression mirroring what he was feeling, he sank down to his knees before her, looking up at her with worried eyes.

"My face, Clarice?"

She whirled on him, suddenly, and put both of her hands on either side of his face, turning it up so that she could look directly into his eyes.  Her beautiful face was pale and, he noticed, quite livid.

"No!" she said, pain evident in her voice. "No – not your face.  _Never_ your face." She turned away from them, shame coming to join the pain in her air. "Never.  I haven't forgiven myself for what I did that first night that I was with you – I can't.  Erik, your face is only a part of you, and _you_ are beautiful.  But…"

And she stood, gently putting his hands away from her, and went across the room.  Confused, Erik looked after her for a moment, remaining where he was.  Then, he stood as well and followed her.  Clarice stood with her back to him, head bowed and eyes shut.  How could she explain to him how unfair she thought the world was, in keeping them separated for all of this time, and for dealing him such an unkind turn?  Could words express such anger?

"Clarice." he said, and took her hand in his.  

Ashamed, she wouldn't look at him, and he finally had to resort to using gentle force to make her gaze meet his.  And then he looked deeply into her eyes: into the face of the one that he had come to cherish so passionately.

"The world _isn't_ fair, if that's what you are thinking – I know that is what lies in your mind now.  The world has never been fair.  Awful things happen to people who may or may not deserve it…but who can say why?  We can't.  We are _not_ the creators of our own destinies.  Such things have been…_foretold_, for us, from before the beginnings of time.  The choices we make are our own, and yet they have been already set out.  No one could have stopped what happened to me; it was _meant_ to be.  And in the same way, all that has happened to you has been _meant_ for a reason as well…and, my dear, I think that, whether you believe it or not, it is a _good_ reason.  We have but to accept this…to accept the truth.  We are not asked for more."

His yellow eyes pierced into hers, seeing into her mind, her heart, her soul itself.

"It is destiny, _ma belle_."

"_Destiny_." she whispered.

Suddenly, there was a rain of frantic blows on the door just beyond them, and the two whirled as one towards it, startled by the unexpected noise.  Erik gave Clarice an apologetic look and went across the room to answer it himself, as there were no servants about, calling as he went, "All right!  Calm yourself, please – the world's not coming to an end about us!"

He opened the door, and stepped back in surprise.

"Fabrizio – hold a moment, what's wrong with you, my friend?  You look like you've just had a run-in with the Grim Reaper himself!"

The handsome young nobleman himself entered the room quickly then, shutting the door behind him, and faced both the Count and Clarice with despair and fear dark in his eyes.  He did indeed look as if he had just encountered someone – or something – absolutely dreadful.

"You may well believe that I have seen just such a thing when you hear what I must now tell you," were his words, said in a breathless, cryptic tone.  

Erik raised his eyebrows beneath the mask, moving to lean up against a nearby pillar with his arms crossed nonchalantly across his chest, one ankle hooked over the other with that leg supporting him.  "Let's have it then," he said.

Fabrizio looked at him as if he were mad.  

"Erik, by Heaven, can't you see that I am here on an errand of desperate, perilous _urgency_?  There's an interrogator come to court, at the behest of none other than your mortal enemy the Marquis de Mercier, and his orders are to arrest and try you, privately – for _murder_!"

The Count d'Auberie's air abruptly went serious: deadly serious and dark.  He left the pillar and went to his friend's side, his good hand moving to grip the younger man's arm with a vice-like hold.  

"Who?  Who do they say I've killed?"

Fabrizio's eyes were as dark as the other man's, and knowing.  

"A sailor who had been in the Marquis's service, and a French merchant."

He paused and looked at Clarice.

"_Your_ uncle."

She felt her entire body go rigid with a cold, numbing feeling, and she felt behind herself for the couch – for anything – to sit down before the whirling of her mind caused her to leave consciousness entirely.  She only dimly heard the rest of the conversation.

"That's _impossible_!" Erik was saying, clearly infuriated.

"I know!" came Fabrizio's strangely wearied, defeated voice. "But somehow they've got a witness – someone from the Marquis who said he saw the whole thing happen – and he's willing to stand as witness, along with that villain of an innkeeper who was there that day at the inn, when they tried to kidnap Clarice.  They said that you murdered both of the sailor and the merchant in cold blood, and the Marquis seems set on proving you guilty by a private investigation – with his man standing as judge, prosecuting lawyer, _and_ jury!"

"They can't do this!" Erik fumed, only barely controlling the anger that had festered within him for so long against the Marquis. "I have my own sort of power and there are friends of mine in many influential circles who would be glad to stand for me—"

"He's spread rumors about you, Erik." Fabrizio cut in. "There are stories about you going around all the court, and since this seems to be a private battle between two of the French nobility…"

"Is there _no_ way that this blackguard can be denied his wish for blood and violence?  Will the world stand by while innocents are ensnared and destroyed?  What can we _do_?" There was no mistaking the fury in the Count's voice.  The fury or the bitterness.  A long, long silence stepped into the room, filling it.

Finally, Fabrizio spoke.

"You must get out of Milan."

Clarice looked up suddenly, upon hearing this, and gazed at her two companions: one, who was surely one of her first greatest friends, and the other, whom she cared for more deeply than anything else in the world.  

Then she noticed that there was a tray with a covered silver platter on it that had been set on the low teakwood table before her.  She stared at it bemusedly, not recalling having heard a servant come in and left it there.  Clearly, her mind was in even more turmoil than she had thought, if she had become so oblivious to reality.  It didn't seem as if Fabrizio or Erik had taken much notice of it until now.  

Suddenly, there was the sound of something moving…

From underneath the platter.  

_It was a sound that vaguely reminded her of the hiss of a garter snake that she had once come across in her daily sojourns about her family's manor, before all of this…_

Across the room from her, Fabrizio and the Count seemed to have heard it as well.  Without a word, Erik had then suddenly bolted across the room to her and was whisking the tray up and off of the table, carrying it away and to the window, which he opened and then dumped the tray – silver platter and all – out of.  

Fabrizio gave an inarticulate exclamation of surprise and Clarice stood, racing over to stand by the Count, who was looking down at the ground below with a look of both rage and disgust in his eyes.

"So it comes to this," he was saying in a low, deadly voice as Clarice caught sight of a very large, hooded serpent in the grass below: its beady black eyes staring up at her with the hollow gaze of death. "First the threats, then the plots…and now the attempts on our lives.  And it has only _barely_ begun."

He turned away from the window, silently compelling Clarice to do so as well, and they faced the center of the room, and Fabrizio: their one true friend amidst all of the death, plotting, and murder that surrounded them.

"We must _indeed_ leave."

*                       *                       *

It was agreed between them that Fabrizio would help arrange for the two of them to leave Sforzesco Castle without alerting anyone of their departure.  If the Marquis de Mercier was to discover their plans, the Count d'Auberie would be captured and rendered unable to escape a truly nasty turns in events at the hands of his dastardly nemesis, who – it seemed – would stop at _nothing_ to see him either dead or imprisoned.  

The Marquis wanted the prize at the end of the puzzle as well; Erik knew this.  He had tried to get his hands on the Windsor Castle painting, but to no avail, and now, his thought was to incarcerate the Count and, quite possibly, the young artist who was the only key to unraveling the clues of the puzzle.  If he could capture the Count and Clarice, he would find the jewel at the end of the mystery.  _That_ was why there had been an attempt at kidnapping Clarice, a plot to waylay the Count on his way back from Germany, the 'accident' of the fire at the masque ball, and now not only the appearance of a ruthless, professional interrogator, but a venomous snake as well – which, Erik later informed Clarice, had been a kind of serpent known as a cobra.  

All reason enough indeed for them to make their best effort to evade the Marquis de Mercier and those employed by him.

They could not leave until nightfall, however.  Thus, they had time to gather the belongings that they wished to take along with them to wherever they might be headed now – and they did not have to bring much, owing to the Count's great wealth – and to make a plot of their own.  

Fabrizio and Chlöe would stay behind in the Count d'Auberie's chambers and move about, in plain sight of the windows, so that it would appear as if two people, a man and a young woman, were there.  Chlöe would, of course, have to hide her hair, as it was significantly lighter in colour than Clarice's ebony locks, and Fabrizio would done his mask from the ball those few nights before, but their ruse would work for long enough a time to allow Clarice and Erik a head-start on their escape.

And during the time in which they had to wait for nightfall, Clarice set to work desperately on the mirror, determined that she would unravel its secrets before they had to depart.  Erik, Fabrizio, and Chlöe joined her, and all four of them worked over the reflective piece of glass for the next several hours, sometimes silent, sometimes talking, but always searching…

It was Fabrizio who served as the inspiration for the finding of the answer.  

He noticed the strange spaces that had been left in the mirror's frame, and commented that they looked as if they should hold candles.  Clarice replied that she had seen this before…but then it dawned on her that this might _indeed_ mean something.  Many mirrors had placed for candles to be set in them, but with this mirror, there could very possibly be another reason for this being so.  

Quickly, they found a number of candles and lit them, placing them in the designated spaces…and the mystery was solved.  

When the mirror was illuminated, it showed itself to be no typical mirror.  With the candles' light falling upon its silvery depths, the mirror revealed itself to be a map.  In the glass had been painted a depiction of the landscape of a part of Spain, with the outline of a large jewel drawing the eye to the city of Roses.  

For his brilliance, Fabrizio was made much of by a jubilant Clarice and Chlöe, which seemed to put him in high spirits indeed.  

And so it was there settled: Erik and Clarice would depart from Sforzesco Castle that night to evade the clutches of the Marquis de Mercier and his interrogator, who would have the Count brought to justice for a crime that he had not committed.  They would then take the _Odyssey_ from the port of Genoa to Roses, in Spain – and there, they would, in all likeliness, find the next piece of the puzzle…

*                       *                       *

By a few hours before midnight that night, Clarice stood on the deck of the _Odyssey_ watching the coast of Italy, with the dark outlines of Genoa's seaside city, drift away from her.  She smiled softly in the darkness to herself.  

Perhaps one day she would return to Milan.  

She certainly had reason to, now that she had such a good friend there as Fabrizio, and she really did love it the city and all of its attractions.  But she was at last moving on to her next adventure, to the next step in her journey with her Count…and she was ready for whatever would come to her now.

There was a step on the deck behind her, and she turned around, the playful sea winds catching her hair up within them and blowing them around her head and shoulders like any number of dark streamers.  Erik smiled wryly and approached at her beckoning, coming to stand beside her at the ship's edge, leaning against the ledge that surrounded the deck and looking out to sea for a moment.  Then he turned from it and looked at her.

"So…we leave." he said, and she nodded.

"We do indeed, my lord." 

There was silence between them for a moment, and then he said, "Will you miss it…there?"  In his voice was a wealth of unspoken questions, and Clarice felt compelled to relieve him of any doubt that he might have in his mind towards how she felt.

"Yes, a little bit…but I am glad to be moving on…glad that we will eventually turn our course back towards home.  France."

It felt as if it had been a lifetime since she had been in the country of her birth…months had passed, and yet she felt as if an eternity had gone by…

Erik made an appreciative noise and she suddenly remembered something that she had wanted to confront him about for quite a long while – and that now seemed to be the perfect time to broach it with him.  

Turning on him quickly, she stabbed a finger towards him, emerald green eyes flashing with mock reproach and said sternly, "But know this, my lord Count d'Auberie – no matter where we go, I will stand by you as your most staunch and loyal companion…just don't you _ever _try to match make me again!"

He stared at her blankly for a second, seeming to have become numb with shock, and then he threw his head back and laughed: clearly, warmly, happily.  When he came back down to earth and looked at her again, shaking his head and still laughing, his yellow eyes were alight with both pleasure and wry self-effacement.

"Discovered!  I should have expected as much!  All right then, milady, I swear: I will _never_ try to match make you again." he promised, pulling on an attempt at a solemn face, although his eyes were sparkling too much for it to even somewhat pass as genuine.  He held out his hand to her, as a means of sealing the vow, and Clarice put her own hand into it, only for him to lock his fingers around hers and pull her close to him, grinning down at her from his still-alarmingly tall height.

"Somehow I don't believe you." Clarice said, and then she pushed herself away, trying to give him queenly, dismissive look but not succeeding.  

He only grinned at her again.

"Fine then, _don't_."

*                       *                       *

A/N:  Ooh, and he's got a rather devilish sense of humor too!  Well, like I said, a bit more lighthearted, with some explanations of things.  Hehehe.  And now we're off to Spain, and I am free to begin truly tossing things up even more than I have done previously!  I advise you to buckle your seatbelts and hang on to your hats; it is now going to be a wild ride, ladies and gentlemen… (As if it hasn't ever been just that!)  R&r, and I luv you all!  

@{--------------


	15. Nowhere Else in the World

A/N:  _Buenos tardes_, _Bon après-midi_, _Il pomeriggio buono_, _Guten Nachmittag_, and good afternoon in whatever other language that you may speak or desire to hear!  'Tis I, Kates, and I have returned at last (I know, I'm a bad girl for taking so long, slap my hand if you want…) to give you not one but three _lovely_, _long_, and completely _new_ chapters of my latest story!  Hope you enjoy all this, because I've worked long and hard on it…  ^_^

**"Ramp"**:  Ah, men – can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em.  Hope your play works out better than mine though…  Kissing the Count – well, I'll tell you this much, his ability to kiss was not impaired by his accident with the fire, and we'll see where that goes from here.  (Ah the wonders of romance!)  As to Clarice sleeping in the same room and the "proper-ness" of that, well, that is explained in chapters to come.  Fabrizio and Chloe's involvement in the Erik-Clarice escape is also handled, so fear not!  I will eventually deal with all of the loose ends I've got here… *rolls eyes*  Or so we all hope…

**Lis**:  Yes, aren't they a great couple?  *sighs*  Anywho.  The deal with the mirror is also explained in this chapter; it takes an imagination like mine (you know, slightly more "out there" than is probably good for me…hehe) to conjure up things like that, but yeah.  I'm working on it.

**CapturedHeart**:  First off, I don't take your reviews negatively at all.  They are very helpful, and I am glad that you have mentioned the things that you have.  As for the importance of the art mystery…well, from this point of the story on, we may all find that it isn't quite as important as it once was, or as we thought it was.  Just wait and see.  ^_~

**Riene**:  Well, what can I say?  Cheers to the intelligent women of the world!  Isabella d'Este…hmm.  Yes, I can definitely see a similarity between her and Clarice.  And yes, I have read Ms. McKinley's 'Beauty' – it is one of my all-time favorite books!  (Bar, of course, 'Phantom', anything by Shakespeare, and the Lord of the Rings trilogy…)

Everyone else:  Thank you all once again for your awesome reviews, and I hope you enjoy what I've come up with in these next few chapters.  You are the best reviewers an aspiring author could ask for!

And now, on to the story!

Chapter Fourteen – 

Nowhere Else in the World

Waves crashed somewhere in the distance, onto the sandy shores.

A seagull took to flight and swooped out over the turbulent, briny waters: wailing its mournful cry as it went.

_The goblins did all they could to evade the prince, but it was useless: Skye was determined to rescue the baby princess, and rescue her, he would, no matter how fiercely he had to fight the marauding creatures for her.  _

_Eventually, the goblins and the Elven prince stumbled into the midst of a raging battle.  Here, the goblins realized that they had the perfect opportunity to lose their pursuer: in the tangled mess of embattled living beings, they would disappear, along with the kidnapped princess._

_But they were all of them mistaken.  _

_No matter what they did, no matter where they ran, Skye was always behind them.  Through the battle they raced, becoming ever more desperate…_

_Then, surprise!  Skye appeared out of nowhere and slew the goblin who held the wailing infant; then, he took the babe up in his own arms and looked about for escape.  He had dispatched the goblins that had been with her in the moment that he had attacked, but there were others about, he knew.  Quickly then, he looked towards the passageway back into the Elven world: a magical doorway through which he and the goblins had come.  It was still open – he _must_ reach it!_

_He held the infant princess close and began to run, but then, one of the goblins who lay in a mangled heap at his feet – a goblin whom he thought he had killed – shrieked out its rage and fell upon him with blood in its eyes—_

Drip.

"Good lord, that is _cold_!  _Erik_!"

And Clarice dropped her book and turned around, looking to see the source of her surprise: a soaking wet Count d'Auberie, who stood behind her with a grin on his face as rivulets of seawater streamed off of him.  

They had been in the coastal city of Roses, Spain, for a little over a week; the date was now August 2nd, 1530.  On their arrival to the place, the Count had rented out an abandoned villa that sat, perched high atop a set of towering stone cliffs, just above the waters of the Atlantic Ocean.  This had been their residence for the past days of their stay in the land of the Spaniards, and no one had yet asked any questions about the building's new tenants, even if it was somewhat odd – and quite _unseemly_, some would say – for a mysterious, wealthy man and a beautiful young girl to be taking up a residence alone with one another.  However, the villa _was_ large, and Clarice and Erik looked enough like one another either for him to pass as her father or older brother.  And one glimpse of the Count d'Auberie's gold was enough to still anyone's wagging tongues…__

_If_ he so wished it.

So was their life, at least for the moment.  They had only rarely seen any other human beings during the time since their arrival – and the people that they did see were only those who lived in the city of Roses, when either or both of them went to fetch food or whatnot – and Erik had not yet mentioned going to find the next piece of their puzzle.  

Now, as Clarice looked at him, she thought briefly of all that had passed them since their meeting in France, late one night in spring at the store that she and her aunt owned.  She had become a part in the house of a famously wealthy and enigmatic nobleman and had seen many wonders: the grandeur of the French and Italian nobility, the wild beauty of a ship at sea, and now the heedless, passionate loveliness of Spain.  

What would she experience next, with her dearest friend at her side?  She could not imagine…and yet she was happy because of this.

But as for that direct moment, she was _not_ happy.

Setting aside her writing, she turned around in her chair – a wooden piece especially created for use at the seaside – and fixed her companion with piercing, wrathful green eyes.

"If you got my book wet, my lord—" she began, but he cut her off, amusement and mischief sparkling in his yellow eyes.

"Then there will be all the world to pay?" he guessed, and backed off, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender when she made a move to stand, the look on her fair young face promising judgment.  "All right, all right, milady – I crave your pardon!  Do not attack me in your vengeance; I _swear_, I will keep the sea apart from you when you wish to be otherwise employed, from henceforth."

And he swept her a gallant bow, at which she could not help but giggle – it was a rather comical sight: the masked nobleman, wet through from a swim, quite obviously, bowing as grandly as if he were at court, to a girl with ink stains on her fingertips and a face flushed a poppy red with the heat of the sweltering afternoon sun.  

Shaking her head and still laughing a bit, she gave up her ire and turned back around again, beckoning for him to join her.  

Erik's eyes did not leave off of their sparkling as he elegantly acknowledged her invitation and sat down beside her on the long leg-rest of the chair, glancing at her sideways as he did so.  

Clarice had spent many long hours out in the sun since the day that they had first stepped off of the Odyssey onto Spanish turf: her skin had gradually gone from a pale ivory to a gold-tinged cream, seeming as if it had been kissed by the sun itself.  It was an enchanting sight: her, sitting there on the golden beach, her ebony locks tousled by the rough sea winds and eyes shining, reflecting the sea's vast blue-green depths within themselves.

_Enchanting indeed…_

But, clearing this off, he focused his mind on the real reason why he had come to see her, and trekked down the beach from the city to the place where their current abode happened to be.  As amusing and enjoyable as it was to stand there and tease her by hanging over her shoulder while she wrote, there were more pressing matters at hand.

So he brought out the folded piece of paper that he had kept stuck in his breeches' pocket up until that moment, with a flourish, catching her attention.  As her green eyes riveted on the parchment in his hand, he announced, "I almost forgot to tell you the reason I came down here to find you – I've a letter from Mme. Colbert.  I thought that perhaps you'd like to read it."

Clarice's eyes took on an interested and intense glow and she reached out, taking the proffered letter from his hands and sitting back to read it.  Erik remained where he was, watching her as she scanned over its contents with an eager hunger written across her face and almost tangible in her air.  

Mme. Colbert's letter had been awaiting him in Roses when he had journeyed into the city that morning, as was the habit that both he and Clarice had picked up while staying there.  In it, they were told that the rest of the Count's retinue – those who had stayed behind in Milan after he and Clarice had left, in order to escape the scheming Marquis de Mercier and his accusations of murder on the Count's part – had returned to the nobleman's castle in France, and all were safe and well.  

More important, however, was the news that Erik and Clarice's fellow conspirators in their escape, the Duke Fabrizio de Luca and Clarice's handmaid: Chloe, had _not_ suffered the Marquis's wrath at the evasion of his wiles.  For the moment, all worry stemming from fear of the Marquis's next actions could leave them.  The corrupt nobleman had no idea where they had gone, and he would not have knowledge of their current location until it was too late.  

Of this, Erik was sure.  Armand would not get to them – not this time.

Meanwhile, next to him, Clarice had finished reading the housekeeper's letter and now sat back with a sigh of contentment and, Erik noticed, relief.  

Turning to her, he said, "Well?"

The girl's emerald gems of eyes were distant and reflective as she replied, looking out to sea and yet not seeing it, or him.

"I am glad that they are all safe home – especially Fabrizio and Chlöe."

His eyebrows quirked behind the mask in a show of wry skepticism, which she couldn't see but was aware of anyway by his air.

"You were worried for them?"

"Yes…" She nodded, slowly, thoughtfully. "I thought that if they were caught there, masquerading as us, certainly…" Then she stopped, breaking off suddenly, and looked at him, her gaze now focused and penetrating, pensive. "But you had thought of that, hadn't you?  You already _knew_."

Her friend's yellow eyes were dark and serious, as was the expression on the visible parts of his face.  "I would never leave anyone to such dire chance," he told her, solemnly. "No, I know the Marquis de Mercier much too well.  He only wants me – _you_ and me, to be exact.  That is why he hired a private interrogator – he is _quite_ aware of the fact that none of his accusations towards me would hold up in a formal court of law.  No, my dear…he is trying to capture _us_, and he plans to do it by underhanded means…so I resorted to a few of my own."

Realizing what he meant, Clarice finished for him, "And so you had Fabrizio and Chlöe disguise themselves as you and me, leaving them with the command to only stay long enough for anyone to see them and think that the two of them were us, but _not_ long enough for the Marquis de Mercier to arrive and catch them there."

She paused.

"And now they are safe in their respective homes…"

"As are we."

Clarice then gazed at him admiringly, a fond smile playing about her curving lips and causing her eyes to sparkle beautifully.  

"You really _don't_ leave anything to chance, do you?"

His eyes burned into hers.

"Not anything…or _anyone_."

Then he stood up and she followed him with her eyes, tilting her head back so that she could still look into his masked face.  

"I must take myself off to the house now, milady," he told her, a lightheartedness coming back into his voice and manner after the seriousness of the moment before. "There is a certain matter that I must needs attend to there, and I find that I cannot very well put off dealing with it for much longer without risking some _considerable_ loss to my own plans…"

She stood, fairly bouncing off of the chair in excitement, as she guessed, "It's the next part of the mystery, isn't it?  You're going to go find it."

Erik nodded.

"That I am, lady…and I was wondering if, perchance, _you_ would like to join me this time.  For I think that we have earned the right to make this newest discovery _together_."

*                       *                       *

They had, in the end, and both well knew it.

Never had the two of them gone off to make an actual advancement in the unraveling of the jewel puzzle together.  Each time before, it had always been the same routine: he and Clarice would both work on the puzzle itself together, and when they had found the answer behind its clues, he would depart to find the next piece in the set, but always alone.  

It had been that way with the first portrait, of Love and Death dancing together amidst a sea of English and Spanish courtiers; he had gone to England on his own, there to make purchase of the Windsor Castle ballroom portrait.  It had been that way when he had returned and they had discovered, from the Cupid and Psyche painting, that their way now lay on the road, or rather the sea-path, to Milan, and when she had learned, from the statue of Julius Caesar, that the piece in the set after the statue itself was located in Germany.  And now – now that they were in Spain, in the city that the piece from Germany, the mirror, had named as the next location…_now_ they would finally go together to make the next discovery.   

At last.

Clarice could barely contain her excitement.  Milan had been thrilling, to be sure – she had never been given an opportunity to travel outside of France before in her life – but to actually be at her friend's side when they found the object of their search…

_At last._

She followed him up the steep pathway that led from the windswept beach up to the house that was perched on the towering cliffs above, all the while trying to think of what the next piece of artwork they would find would be.  She had seen many examples of fine craftsmanship in their quest thus far: two paintings, a statue, and now a mirror.  What could they _possibly_ find next?  Surely, it would be as intriguing and wonderful as its predecessors, whatever it was…

And with that, he was holding the door open for her and she had walked inside, giving him her heartfelt thanks for his gallantry.  Once she had entered the cool darkness of the villa's foremost hall, she paused for a moment to allow her eyes to adjust to the shadows and also for him to join her, having closed the door behind him.  

The place that now surrounded her was sumptuous, sensual, and alluring: true Spanish architecture, built and decorated in the style of the Moors, who had carried their exotic influences of the arid lands of the Holy Land and the realms about it to the southernmost parts of Europe.  Scrolling twists and turns of black wrought iron, detailed with stars and flower blossoms and sunbursts were all about her, and walls of rough, creamy white stucco, with floors of detailed tile mosaics in vibrant jewel tones: sapphire, emerald, amethyst, topaz, and even a deep, deep ruby.  

In the gardens that surrounded the villa and the courtyards within it grew all manner of imported and native greenery: olive and orange trees, climbing roses and bright marigolds, herbs and shrubbery, and many others, all creating a rejuvenating, fascinating haven where the outdoors and indoors came together in one smooth, seamless blend.  

How many hours had she spent simply watching the day go by in either one of the rooms of the villa, or outside in the gardens?  How she would miss it here: it was almost as familiar and beloved to her as the castle back in the mountains of France…

She turned to her companion, cocking her head to one side in a show of expectant serenity.  "Shall we, milord Count?"

And he grinned at her from behind the mask.

"We shall, milady."

Then, together, they went into the library, where the mirror from Germany awaited them, set up like some shrine on a table there: the candles in its sockets unlit but soon to once again make the mirror's glassy surface glow with their flames.

Erik retrieved another spare candle from the kitchen, where the flames in the fireplace were never allowed to go out, unless they would be away from the house all day and unable to attend to them, and lit the tall white tapers that were already in their place in the mirror's frame.  Then they stood back and watched as the mirror – which was really more of a simple piece of tinted glass than an actual mirror, so transparent was its surface.  If they both stood on either side of it, they could look almost directly through it to see each other, although the haze of silver that was still there to make the piece at least seem as if it was a true mirror somewhat hampered this.              

Clarice gazed into the mirror's depths, seeing the map of Spain materialize as the flames of the candles grew and brightened it.  

There, still, was the rose that marked the town that bore the flowers' name, and nothing else gave any indication of where exactly the next piece of the puzzle would be.  In previous times, an exact location had always been given: Windsor Castle's ballroom, a certain room in Milan's Sforzesco Castle and another in the fortress in Germany.  

If the past was any indication of the present, they would find a location somewhere in the mirror – and then they would go to it.

She looked up and met her companion's yellow eyes over to top of the mirror's frame.  Then he gave her a resigned, knowing look and said, "Let's to 't, then, milady."

They took their respective places on either side of the mirror and began to pore over it once again: two pairs of eyes scanning over it with a peculiar intensity, silence falling into the room.  Suddenly then, Clarice gave a wordless exclamation of pleasantly surprised triumph, and she beckoned quickly for him to join her on her side of the mirror.  He did so, and she pointed to one of the roses that had been carved in the piece's frame.

"_That _is _not_ a rose, my lord," she said, confidently. "It is the blossom of a dogwood tree – are you in any way familiar with the story that is told about that particular denizen of the forest?"

He nodded, gazing at the four-petaled flower in silence for a moment.

"It was told that it was to be used as the wood for the cross upon which was executed the Christ, and became so ashamed and saddened that the promise was given to it that it would not be forever remembered in such infamy.  It was therefore given flowers that would serve forever as a reminder to all those who looked upon it of that greatest of all sacrifices – four petals with nail scars on their tips, like to those that were borne on the two hands and two feet of Jesus of Nazareth." 

He paused, suddenly knowing where they would find the next part of the puzzle as well. "The words on the frame read, '_Look in my depths for enlightenment_'…and where better to find enlightenment than in a _church_?  It's in the monastery in Roses."

They stood away from the mirror and he briefly smiled at her, a wealth of warmth and fondness even in that short moment.

"Join me on a ride to the home of the local monks then?"

She smiled, the brilliance of the expression lighting the candlelit shadows.

"I would much enjoy that, my lord."

*                       *                       *

"_Once upon a time, in the land of Ireland during its most ancient days, there was a great warrior known as Fionn Mac Cumhail: ruler of the tribe of people who had taken on the name the Fianna.  Tales of his bold, wondrous deeds were known all across the land, and there was no hero held in higher reverence than he._

_Now it chanced that one day, while out on the hunt, Fionn happened to come upon the most extraordinarily beautiful deer: a slender, lithe doe, whom he chased eagerly through the forest.  But then, at length, the doe simply ceased to run and lay down upon the ground, as Fionn's own well-trained hounds frolicked about her, licking her face and head and behaving as if they quite adored her._

_So astonished by this was the great hero that he brought the lovely creature to his home with him and decreed that no one should touch her, or attempt to lay any harm upon her.  Late one night after this, Fionn happened to find a most beautiful woman at his door.  With tears in her eyes, she begged him to be her protector from an evil sorcerer of that land – a Druid of most dark and wicked ways – and he swore that she should suffer no harm when he was about to defend her._

_In time, Fionn and the lovely maiden, a lady of the Faery: Saeve, by name, were wed, and life passed by the two quite happily. 'She is this world and the next,' Fionn said of her, adoration in his eyes and voice. 'She is completion.'  _

_But their bliss was not meant to last.  _

_One day, Fionn returned from being away to find his men wracked with a most bitter grief.  When he asked what had caused this, they told him that a man, who had appeared to be Fionn himself, had come out of the woods, and Saeve had run joyously to greet him.  _

_'Doubt darkened our hearts, for we knew that you were not yet to have returned,' they told him, 'and we implored her to stay back, and wait for you – or rather, the man who looked to be you – but she refused to wait your coming.'_

_ 'Let me go to my love!' she cried, and we did._

_She ran out to greet you, and suddenly, the figure who held her lifted hand, and tapped her with a hazel wand – and even as we watched, the fair Saeve disappeared, and lo! Standing in the place where she had been was a trembling doe.  Then, the pack of hounds that was with the man dragged her away into the forest, their master following behind…and she was gone.'_

_Then Fionn gave a great and awful cry, as one who was smote almost to death with grief, and henceforth, the Fianna people knew a time of great mourning.  Many years passed.  Saeve did not return, for it was clear what had come to pass: the Druid had come to claim her, in the form of her beloved, and now she was his prisoner.  _

_One day, however, while once again on the hunt, Fionn and his men came upon a small, fair-haired boy, who looked as if he might be the copy of the beautiful Saeve herself.  Fionn, out of pity, took the child in and cared for him as he might a son, and in time the boy learned to speak the language of the people who cared for him.  _

_And this was the tale that he told._

_'I lived in a land where no men were,' he explained to them, 'and a beautiful doe was my only companion.  She loved me, and I loved her.  A dark, wicked man came sometimes and would speak to her, sometimes gently, and sometimes angrily, but nothing ever came of it.  Then, one day, he came to see us, and took her away – and I never saw her again.  I wandered out into the land, and then you found me.'_

_At last, Fionn understood the riddle of the boy's origins.  The child was none other than the son of Saeve and Fionn himself: born after Saeve had been taken from her husband by the evil Druid.  The bitter winter of grief that had, for so long, oppressed Fionn's noble heart passed; he had his son, and although Saeve might never return to them, they had one another, and the Fianna people.  And so Fionn brought up the boy – whom he named Oisi'n, or the Little Fawn – and they passed into the legend that you have now heard in full: the tale of Oisin's mother._"  

"The end."

Clarice looked up, slowly, taking her eyes off of the flickering flames in the fire at her feet, reluctantly returning to the real world – to what was known as reality – from the realm of ancient fairy tales, epic adventures, and beautiful love stories as old as time.  She turned her gaze upon the man who was seated on a bench behind her, with her backbone resting up against his legs from the knee down.  

Sighing softly, she then looked into the dark, blue-black night sky, hearing the distant music of the crashing waves upon the beach far below them, and the crickets gently thrumming their own melodies in the night air, as the stars shone like tiny pinpricks of white light, the moon on the rise behind them.

"That was a very sad story, was it not?"

Her companion's voice was gentle and entrancing, more than hypnotic, and she felt lulled into the blissful calm of sleep by its cadence: safe and content with him there to watch over her.  Finally then, she replied, her voice a mere murmur, "Yes…it was very sad.  Erik?"

Again, she looked up to him, but she could only see the vaguest outline of his figure, as he was sitting mostly in the darkness, further away from the fire than her.  His hand paused in its stroking through the hair on the top of her head momentarily.

"Yes?"

Clarice stirred, tucking her feet underneath herself so as to keep them warm and rearranging the drape of her lacy shawl about her shoulders, before speaking again.

Then, "Do you believe in fairy tales?"

Silence.

"Yes…I believe in the kind of fairy tale that you've been writing, lady – where lands far above and beyond our own exist, with creatures and people that could have been created only by the greatest of imaginations…stories in which anything is possible."

"Do you think that anything is possible?"

Her dearest friend's eyes suddenly glimmered golden in the light of the dancing flames, brightened for some unexplained, hidden reason, and his hand moved to her shoulder, almost in a caress.  Clarice leaned into his touch, closing her eyes and loving his nearness to her.

"My own sweet white rose." he said, softly. "At this moment, I cannot bear to think that _anything_ is _impossible_."

Then, after those words, they both fell silent, going back into the wordless reverie that had possessed them before.  Clarice looked out to the blackened horizon of the dark sea, her green eyes piercing through the nighttime shadows and seeing worlds beyond it that did not exist, save in the realm of imagination.  

Erik's story of the ancient Irish hero, which was told in picture on the tapestry that they had found at the monastery earlier that day: the piece of the artwork puzzle that they had come to Spain's shores in search of, remained in her mind.  The passionate, devoted love of the hero and his wife, the deep-rooted treachery of the evil, vengeful Druid, the awful tragedy of their parting, and wondrous joy in the discovering of a long-lost son…all these remained in her mind like a splinter.  

Someday, very soon, she would have to look deeper into the story told on that tapestry, to find a location – an actual, tangible place that they could go to in their quest for the stolen jewel – but as for now, she was content to simply remember the tale that her friend had just told her.  On the canvas of her imagination formed a picture of the age-old tale of love and loss, shimmering like an emerald: a perfect, living jewel that was the land of Ireland, the realm of the story's hero and his lady-love…

Behind her, Erik stirred and then bent down to her, stooping so that he could move his hands to her upper arms, just above the elbows, and then raise her to stand with him, all the while gazing into her eyes with his own gleaming golden eyes.

"It's late, _cherie_," he said, softly. "Time for you to be dreaming, safe inside."

And then he took her into the house, one arm resting gracefully – warmly, protectively – about her shoulders, neither saying one word to break the beautiful silence that now surrounded them.  

Night went on, taking its regular, unhurried, tranquil course, and life stilled to an almost complete quiet, as Clarice went to sleep: resting blissfully in her own deep, enveloping bed, to dream the hours away with visions of her very own fairy tale, in which she was the princess, and a strangely familiar, tall, handsome young man with dark hair and stunning golden eyes was her prince… 

*                       *                       *

The next morning was different from any other, she knew even before awakening.    

It was her birthday.

On this glorious August morning, seventeen years a-gone now, she had made her entrance into the world.  August 3rd, 1513 – the day of Clarice Boisvert's birth.  

The sound of birdsong, the playful summer morning breeze, waves crashing in white-capped breakers on the beach far below, and gulls crying out to one another greeted her ears as she swam out of her sleep into the conscious world.  Not yet willing to leave the bliss of her wonderful dreams, she turned over slightly in her bed, half-burying her face in the snowy white pillow that her head rested upon.  On the air was the salty, familiar scent of the ocean, accompanied by the perfume of the jasmine flowers that grew in a tangled curtain just outside of her room's lattice-frame windows, and the much heavier fragrance of roses…

_When did roses grow so near to my bedchamber?_

Suddenly Clarice's eyes flew open, and she sat up in bed, astonished at the sight that now met her eyes as she looked out at her surroundings.  

Someone had been into her room that morning, and thrown open the windows so that the sunshine could flow, free and uninhibited, into the place: warming it with its glorious golden rays – and that same someone had also scattered the luscious, velvety, blood-red petals of many, many roses all over her bed, so that they surrounded her both on the bed and on the floor like a shower of ruby raindrops.  Clarice could barely contain her overwhelming delight.  Not only were there rose petals on her bed, there were also dozens of white rose blooms themselves, all fresh-cut, scattered about her room, shining in the shadows and glowing in the morning sunshine.

And on the chair that sat across from her canopied bed, next to the tiled fireplace, had been placed a very lovely gown of dusky rose silk, with a note pinned to it: a message written upon it in black ink.  

'_Happy 17th birthday, ma belle – I hope you don't mind, but you are to have a surprise tonight, and I must needs be away all day until evening to attend to certain "business" of mine, which calls me quite urgently.  Wear this gown, enjoy your day...and think of me!_' it read.

Clarice scanned over the note once again after her initial reading, her lips gradually curving into a knowing smile.  Erik, Erik, Erik – whatever would he surprise her with next?

Well, if he must needs be away all day and leave her to her own means while she slowly went mad with suspense as to what this 'surprise' of his was to be, she might as well spend that time enjoying herself, as the note had entreated her to do.  She glanced then at the door that had been placed in the wall nearby her, emerald eyes gleaming.

Today she was seventeen…and she would _indeed_ enjoy herself!

*                       *                       *

No one lived on the beach for miles in either direction of the villa, which was why neither Erik nor Clarice had had much contact with anyone other than each other during the time of their stay in Roses so far.  This morning, Clarice decided that she would take advantage of that fact and indulge in some leisure time spent down on the beach.  So, as the sun shone down on the golden sands and the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean that ran along that particular point of Spain's northeastern coast, the adventurous young French _artiste_ experienced her first contact with the ocean's salty waves.  

Most women of that day and age did not know how to swim, but Clarice did, for some odd reason.  Why she had learned, she hadn't any idea; however, she was certain that there were the select few others of her gender that had mastered the art, and what was wrong with being possessed of such a knowledge, anyhow?  More likely than not, it would prove an asset, especially with all the sea-faring that she had been doing in the last few months of her life…

The water was at once both deliciously cold and comfortably warm, and she took to the waves like a mermaid, emerging every once in a while from beneath its surface to breath in the arid summer air and throw her hair back from her face, onto her back, where it glistened like a river of liquid ebony.  When she was not enjoying the water, she remained on the beach, letting her linen shift, which she had chosen to wear as swimming attire, dry in the hot sun while she lay on the sand, reading a book: her mind completely leaving the world and traveling to places far beyond it.  The hours of morning crept away, leaving her at noon with a voracious hunger and a warmth of the skin that told her that retiring indoors would be the best course of action now.

In her room, she drew a bath from the inventive washroom plumbing system that the house's expelled owners – Moors – had installed long before she or the Count d'Auberie had ever thought to inhabit the place.  

The things that she had brought with her from the _Odyssey_ were few but luxurious: only the items that she had been able to fit into her trunk, along with her other belongings, and among them was a set of cut glass bottles of various colours – a vivacious red-pink for rose oil, a deep sea-blue for grapefruit and peppermint-scented scrub, entrancing green for white tea and chamomile, and amethyst purple for, what else?, lavender, to name a few.  Clarice made up her bath and stepped in, sluicing off the sea brine from her grateful skin and indulging in a good, long soak.  

At length, when she felt as if she might turn into a human-size prune from too much of a good thing, she let the water drain out and wrapped herself up in one of the delicate, whispering silk robes that were the part of her wardrobe that had been stored on the _Odyssey_.  Then she went downstairs, looking for all the world like a playful peacock blue, golden-yellow, and jade green hummingbird of supreme grace and elusiveness.  Into the kitchen she went, seeking the sustenance that her stomach now began to so desperately crave.  A blood orange, pomegranate, and sprig of purple grapes were part of her selection, along with the end of a loaf of bread bought in town earlier that week and a slathering of tangy, soft farmer's cheese; some olives and a glass of tea brewed in the sun completed the piece, and Clarice took herself – and a good long book – out of doors and into one of the jasmine-covered alcoves in the gardens.

So intensely concentrated was she upon the adventures of the Spanish hero that she was now reading of, that the sun had begun its descent to the horizon almost before she had realized it.  Looking up suddenly, she noted the progress of the day and remembered that Erik, her friend, had promised to return in the evening, and it was almost that time.  

Hastily gathering up what was left over of her lunch and her book, she ran back to the house and dashed through the kitchen, across the front hall, and up the stairs, not pausing until she had reached her room.  

But, surprise of all surprise, it seemed as if she had _again_ been visited by some kind fairy!

For, once again, her room was decorated with a multitude of roses – all a deep, dark red that was almost black – and candles had been lit all over it, seeming to sparkle like stars or diamonds.  On her chair was yet another gown…and this one was even more beautiful than its predecessor.  Clarice maintained her presence of mind long enough to close the door behind herself, and then she crossed the room, approaching the waiting gown in silent reverence.  She gently picked it up, holding it by the shoulders, carefully, as if it was so delicate that it would rend itself into shreds if touched the wrong way.  

She gazed at it.

_It was so beautiful._

Dark, midnight blue was its colour: a shade that reminded her of the night sky, bereft of the moon and stars.  The feel of its material against her fingertips was unlike any sensation that she had ever experienced before – she very nearly began to wonder if she was dreaming the whole scene, so incredibly silky and effortlessly delicate was the touch of the gown on her skin.  Its sleeves were long and full-cut, fluttering like butterfly wings, made of some transparent black fabric with beads of jet embroidered heavily along their draping cuffs; the same beading was about the sloping, squared neckline and hem, and scattered about everywhere else in the gown's folds.  It flowed in her arms like a waterfall of inky, liquid ebony, splashing down to the ground with sheer, heedless elegance and glorious beauty.

Slowly, as one who is in a dream, she slipped the dark wonder over her shoulders, letting it drop into place about her perfect figure, melding to her curves as if it had been created solely for her wear.  Clarice stared at it in awe, scarcely able to believe her own eyes.  So, tonight was to be a special night?  

She glanced at the door that led out of her room and into the further regions of the house, knowing that this newest surprise was only the beginning of the night of 'surprise' that lay before her, if Erik had anything to do with it.  

Then she would make it special, for her own part.

*                       *                       *

The most romantic of poets could not have created a more flawlessly beautiful moment; it was not even imaginable.  Not imaginable, or possible.

The front hall of the villa was a-light with candles: some glowed in sconces upon the stucco walls, some shone down from the wrought iron chandelier that hung above the compass rose floor.  Someone had created a garland of black roses and jasmine vine and wound it through the banister, letting its ends drape freely, and someone had arranged for a quartet of supremely talented musicians to play their music softly in the background that evening.

That same someone now waited at the bottom of the stairway, gazing up in knowing expectancy.  He had planned for so long to give her this: a truly wonderful day in which to celebrate her own birth…and now his plans had come full circle, tonight was that night!

A gentle tap of a slipper sounded on the stairway above him.  He looked up, turning his face towards the curve of the banister, and his eyes lit upon her as she paused, resting one hand on the rose and jasmine-covered ledge, gazing down at him with tender, utter devotion and understanding in the shimmering depths of her green eyes.  

And he beheld her in all her glory: black hair piled in a careless, upswept mass atop her head, held by bejeweled combs of sapphire and black diamonds and emeralds – an enthralling contrast to the pure whiteness of her skin, which seemed to have a sparkling sheen about it, and her full, glossy lips, which had curved into a peerless smile.  In her free hand, she held a long-stemmed black rose: clasping it within her fingers as if it was the hand of an adored lover…

He could only remain where he was, and gaze at her, knowing that he had never seen anything more beautiful in all of his long years.

A brilliant white grin suddenly splitting his face, shining from behind the white porcelain mask that hid most of his features, he took a step forward, reaching out a hand to her, beckoning: _come…_

And the dazzling creature did.  

Gathering her waterfall of skirts into one graceful hand to hold them out of the way of her tiny, slender feet, she came down the staircase to him, stretching out her own hand so that he could clasp it in his when she was within his reach.  For one heart-wrenchingly perfect moment, they stood facing one another, gazing into one another's eyes as if there was nothing else in the world but the two of them.  Then, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it: slowly, gently, ardently.

"_Princess_…" he murmured, his eyes never leaving her face. "You are _so_ beautiful."

She smiled at him as well, and replied, softly, "Princess?"

Gathering both of her hands into his, he nodded and said, "Yes…tonight, you are a princess…and I can only hope that you might let me play your prince."

The silence in the air after those words was profound and spellbound, as enchanted as a night after fairy revelries in the old tales.  Then he stepped away from her, standing to one side, and offered her his arm, smiling at her with the elegance and surety of a true nobleman.

"Would milady find it in her heart to join a lonely man whose heart she has utterly captured for dinner, that they might both celebrate the joyous occasion of her birth?"

Clarice felt her own face split with an elated grin, and she nodded.

"Oh – please do, Erik!"

And he returned her smile, and wound her arm through his with the practiced ease of a soul long accustomed to court life and gallantries, and led her from that front hall and into the evening that awaited them…

*                       *                       *

Their dinner had been set up in a gazebo in the gardens just outside of the villa: close enough so that he might return into the kitchen to retrieve the courses as they came, but far away enough that they felt entirely secluded and undisturbed.  As Erik came into the gazebo, bearing a tray of hors d'oeuvres and a bottle of wine, and then seated himself across from her at the small, intimate table, she gazed at him: wonder, almost disbelief in her eyes.

"You did all of this…for me?"

She gestured to the lighted gardens, the kitchen – from whence issued the smells of what promised to be the most delicious of foods that she had ever before tasted –, and the musicians as they played softly in the background, the strains of their music drifting through the jasmine-scented night air to the couple sitting in the gazebo.  

Erik nodded, seeming hesitant and shy in her presence for what seemed to be the first time ever in their acquaintance.

"You did this, for my birthday – for me, at no one's behest other than your own?"

Still, those deep golden eyes watched her: gleaming like topaz in the ambiance of the candlelight, never leaving her, seeming to pierce into her very soul itself, and warm her.  "Yes."

Clarice felt her throat tighten painfully, as if her vocal cords had tied themselves into a knot, and her vision began to blur, as salty tears of utter, incredulous, but beautiful joy burned in her eyes.  Over the waves of emotion that threatened to drown her, she whispered, "Thank you." She paused, looking at him and knowing that there was no one who was dearer to her than this man: the Count d'Auberie, Erik, her first and most beloved friend. "_Thank you_."

And suddenly he was out of his chair and kneeling before her, taking her hands in his and turning her so that she faced him.  

Looking up into her young face, he seemed to know all of her thoughts, all of her feelings and hopes and dreams: past, present, and future, and then his hand came up, cupping against her cheek as she let a single, hot tear drop from her eye onto it.  As gentle and knowing as a soul mate, as loving and warm as a father or brother, and yet as passionate and devoted as a lover who had known her and everything about her for ages past, he stroked his thumb against her cheek, caressing her tenderly.

"Happy birthday, Princess." was all that he said.  "Happy birthday."

Then she was in his arms, holding him close as if she never wanted to let go – as if all of the wonderful dream-come-true that she now saw before her would rip apart and became as if it had never existed, had never been real, even for a moment, if she released him, and he was holding her just as ardently, just as devotedly.

_My prince._

At length, they finally turned their attentions to the sumptuous dinner that he had been away in the city of Roses to prepare, and fell upon it with a voracious hunger.  Clarice marveled at what he had come up with: a pasta that he named to be 'scampi', with fresh seafood scattered about it, so spicy that it made her tongue tingle with delight, fresh white rolls sprinkled with melted butter and crystallized ginger, some sort of fruit sorbet that sent chills up her spine: served between courses to 'cleanse the palate', she was told, and a host of other unbelievably delicious items.  

By the end of it all, she had begun to wonder if she would ever fit into any of her slender-cut gowns again, but even then he wasn't finished.  

After having cleared off the table, he returned with yet another wine bottle, and a covered silver platter.  Clarice groaned in mock-horror from her seat, tilting her head back and half-closing her eyes, making both the sparkles in her makeup and in her jewelry beam into the night like starlight.  

"Oh please, no, Erik!  You can't tell me that you've got more up your sleeve – not now, surely!  For the love of human decency, tell me _no_!"

But he only gave her a maddening grin and took his seat across from her again, moving at the same time to pop the cork of the bottle.  Clarice watched him, amusement and utter contented happiness lighting her eyes.  

"This, I think, milady, you will not find _entirely_ distasteful – I give you now merely an after-dinner trifle, meant to set stars to dancing on your tongue."

She regarded the object of his words with pretend skepticism as he reached across the table to pour its contents into the clear glass flute that he had set in front of her previous to seating himself.  The wine that she now saw looked to be some sort of white wine, perhaps a very pale Chardonnay – but it bubbled and fizzed so that she thought this could not be the case.  Erik poured himself a glass of the stuff – whatever it was – and then took the lid off of the platter, revealing a plateful of the most luscious, ruby-red strawberries that she had ever seen.  

Then he raised his glass to her, and said, "To you, Princess, and to your life being one of complete happily-ever-after, forever and ever and ever."

With a grin, she raised her own glass and clinked it against his, replying, "To complete happily-ever-after's for each person on the earth – for all of us who _truly_ believe in the wonder and magic of fairy tales."

She took her first sip of her wine and was overwhelmed by a sudden rush of a light, dizzying, fizzing sensation in her nose and on her tongue.  Bemused by this, she held her glass up, staring at the pale gold contents within it, and asked, "Erik?"

At that moment, her companion was occupied in selecting a strawberry from the plate.  His reply of, "Hmm?" was somewhat distracted.

"What _exactly_ is this stuff?  It causes my tongue to tickle very oddly, and my nose as well…what have you given me?"

He sat back, rolling the stem of the strawberry that he had picked out between his thumb and forefinger, causing it to spin madly, and grinned at her, an elusive, almost teasing sparkle in his yellow eyes.  

"It is called '_champagne_', m'lady."

Clarice eyed her glass again, turning the name over in her head a few times and finding that she had never heard of such a thing before, even in all her time at the Count's own house and in the court at Milan.  

"Champagne?" she said, trying it out.  Then, suddenly, she felt an urge to laugh; and she did so, quite animatedly and clearly.  "Champagne – ha!  I like that: it sounds so playful, so utterly uncaring of what the world thinks of it.  _Champagne_.  Where else in the world can you get it?"

The elusive sparkle in those yellow eyes intensified and he replied, "Nowhere else in the world – yet, that is."

Not knowing quite what to think of this, she looked at him for a moment longer and then decided, _Well, my girl, you haven't been all over the known world as he has yet – there's probably a lot that you don't know about, and probably even _more_ than you'll ever know!  Don't waste your time worrying about the details; just enjoy what you have with him here and now!_

And so she did.

They stayed at the table for hours into that evening, talking and laughing and relishing one another's company completely.  

Finally then, Erik stood up and held out his hand to her.  She gazed up at him, eyes sparkling and face flushed with pleasure, and he said, "Come now, milady – let us to the beach, for a walk along the waters of the serene Mediterranean, as a fitting means to end the day of your most glorious seventeenth birth-anniversary."

Clarice could not think of a better way to do that very thing, and so, placing her hand in his, she let him lead her down the path and onto the beach.  

The sand had become cool by then, and she slipped off her slippers once they had stepped onto it, carrying them in one hand.  Erik took them down to where they stood almost within reach of the water, and they stood there for a long, silent while: neither speaking, but both knowing that their hearts beat as one.  Erik's arm unconsciously went about her waist, winding around her slender figure and draping there as if it had always meant to be in that position, and she unknowingly leaned up against him, as they savored each other's warmth and closeness.  

Then, Clarice stirred, her head moving against his chest, where it had pillowed itself, and she made a soft laughing noise.  

Angling his head so that he could look down, into her face, he watched her face for a moment, and then asked, "What?"        

She shrugged slightly, seeming unwilling to move in his embrace.

"Oh…nothing.  It's just that…it's just that not even _I_ could have ever imagined this – being here…with _you_.  For all of my imagining of far-off lands and fantastic adventures…I could have never come up with something as…as totally _indescribable_ as this very moment."

Then there was silence again between them.

"We are the moment that we live in; we are the past, and we are the future." he said, softly, and then he released her, stepping away and facing her, as they stood holding hands only a little ways apart, ducking his head so that he could look directly into her face.  "I would not change anything that has happened to us, Clarice: my white rose of France," he said. "And I would not change anything that _will_ happen to us."

"Nor would I." she swore, passionately.

He stepped near to her again, both of his arms moving to completely encircle her within their protective, warm strength, and she placed her hands on his chest, her head dropping back to allow her to look into his face.  

"Erik…" she whispered.  

And then she reached up and, after glancing at him as if for permission, she gently moved her hands to the back of his head, her fingertips weaving through his thick, almost shaggy jet-black hair to find the ties of his mask.  Tenderly, oh so tenderly, she slid those fingertips to the sides of the mask, pulling it away from his face and lifting it entirely off, lowering her hands as she faced him: calm, and unafraid.  

Her green eyes scanned over his features then: his poor, distorted, sunken features that had been mangled so long ago in the entrapping inferno of a fire.  She wondered briefly if that was how his eyes had become their startling, bizarre colour: or had they simply always been that way?  Someday, she somehow was confident, she would know.  He would tell her…but as for now…

It was truly a horrific sight to look upon.  One could only imagine the pain that he had endured to gain such cruel marks; merely _seeing_ such a thing brought a pang to its viewer's heart.  Where smooth, pale skin was supposed to have been, there were only rough, discoloured scale-like patches, stretched tight over muscle and bone.  She almost had to wonder whether some of those places were truly scarred skin, or muscle exposed to the air by the terrible accident that he had been in, all those years ago.  Somehow, his lips and chin had been spared from the devastation, but everything else…it was awful.  His cheekbones jutted out as if they had been carved out of rock, and his eyes were sunken deep into his head, with no eyebrows of any sort to relieve the stark ugliness, the shock, of his yellow gaze.  He hardly had any nose…

And he had lived in loneliness, keeping himself from the world because of a tragedy that he could not have stopped from coming to pass.

In loneliness and grief, without any love to lessen his pain.

Without anyone to stand at his side.

Alone.

She then placed her hands on his shoulders – his broad, strong shoulders – and gently, but firmly, pulled him down towards her.  When his face was almost on level with hers, she lowered her eyelids, letting them drop until they had almost closed, and then she breathed her next words, whispering them so softly that only he could have heard.

"Erik, _I would not change a thing_…"

And she brushed her lips against his twisted, tortured brow, and he felt, for the first time in all the long years since his disfigurement, the burning fire on his skin cease for a moment…

*                       *                       *

A/N: Sorry, for those of you who were expecting a kiss or whatnot (hey, something like that!) in this chapter…I can promise you, however, that good things do come to those who wait…including our beloved Erik and Clarice…  Read on!


	16. Anywhere with Each Other

A/N:  Clarice and Erik continue their adventures in various parts of Renaissance Europe, their course now turning them north, towards home: France, and a certain loathsome villain makes his appearance, turning up on their tail yet again…

Chapter Fifteen – 

Anywhere With Each Other

Alone in her silent house, Jacqueline Boisvert sat in her chair with her embroidery hoop in her lap, stitching calmly as she softly hummed an old French countryside tune.  She had long been the only resident of the Boisvert manor, after her husband's unfortunate death in the far-off city of Milan, and although she bore the new reality of her life as a widow quite well, in times of unreserved truth, she longed to hear the voice of a certain now seventeen-year-old soubrette calling her name down the corridors of the seemingly lifeless house…

"_Aunt Jacqueline!  Aunt Jacqueline!_"

The lady of that name hardly reacted to what she thought was simply a phantom of her own imagination, not stirring from her chair beside the fire.  Then, more insistently—

"Aunt Jacqueline!  Oh, where _are_ you, dear?  I'm here – we're _home_!"

Suddenly, there was a sound of a door being thrown open and then clattering footsteps, running down the wooden floorboards towards the drawing room in which she sat; Jacqueline stood up, freezing where she was, staring at the door across the chamber from her as if she had been turned into stone by those very real sounds.  The voice called her again, closer this time.

"_Aunt Jacqueline!_"

In one swift flurry of skirts and waving arms, the lady of the house had bustled across the room and flung open the door, opening her arms just in time to receive the speaker of those words, who threw herself – both laughing and crying, all at the same time – into the embrace of her beloved aunt.  

Jacqueline was so torn between disbelief and overwhelming joy that she could only hold her returned niece close and squeeze her eyes shut, as tears of happiness welled in her vision.  

Clarice looked absolutely stunning, even more so than when Jacqueline had last seen her – clothed in a fine silk gown of dusky lavender with a billowing cloak of a much deeper shade of purple to accompany it, her hair half-piled onto her head and half-streaming down her back in a glossy raven cloud, she was a vision of loveliness.  The girl herself was too busy embracing her aunt to notice anything else, and together they spent the first joyous moments of their reunion in obvious familiarity and bliss.  

The man who stood in the doorway, behind Clarice, watched them with a satisfied, gentle smile curving his lips.  

Elsewhere in the house could be heard the voices of other people – footmen calling out to one another as they unloaded the luggage that the pair had brought with them, and the house's other occupants, none other than Clarice's best friend Chloe and Mme. Colbert, greeting them and giving orders.  

The Boisvert manor seemed to have come alive once again, and now fairly shimmered with the arrival of the returned travelers.  At length, Clarice and Jacqueline finally pulled away from one another, and Jacqueline placed one hand on her niece's soft, rosy cheek, seeing how her green eyes sparkled with pleasure and contentment, her face flushed a beautiful, velvety shade of rose.  

"Claire!" Jacqueline said, a mixture of awe and jubilation in her voice. "Are you _really_ here – is this actually real, can it be _true_?"

"I am, it is, and it can!" Clarice replied, a bright smile lighting her features, and she threw her arms around her aunt again, holding her close. "We've come back, Aunt Jacqueline – we've come back, and now everything will be perfect, from now on!  You will _never_ believe what news I've got for you…"

And then she stepped away from her aunt, her hand sliding down to take Jacqueline's, pulling her insistently towards the door.  For the first time since the arrival of her unexpected visitors, Jacqueline saw clearly the man who was with her niece, and she stopped short in their progress to the door, her brown eyes flicking first from his masked face to his fine traveling clothes, to the exuberant young girl who stood smiling at them both.  The man swept her an elegant bow, confirming what Jacqueline had already guessed about him.  

"Mme. Boisvert, I am honoured to have finally made your acquaintance – your niece has told me much about you, and it is a pleasure to see you face-to-face at last."

Clarice then addressed her aunt, saying, "Aunt Jacqueline, may I present Erik: the Count d'Auberie?"

Jacqueline found herself hard-pressed indeed not to stare, gaping like a fish or a dumbfounded child, at the famed nobleman, who seemed quite personable and warm-hearted as he smiled and reached out a hand to take hers, bowing once again.  

"It is…a pleasure – my lord!" she choked out, and Clarice finished, "And, Erik, may I have the pleasure of introducing to you my aunt, Jacqueline Boisvert?"

"The pleasure is mutual," Erik stated, exchanging a quick look and smile with Clarice, tactfully ignoring the shock and awe on the older woman's face.  

Jacqueline abruptly remembered her manners and with some amount of difficulty cleared off the cowing surprise that she had felt upon first coming face-to-face with her niece's mysterious employer and, apparently, benefactor.  She curtsied deeply, lowering her eyes, and replied, "I welcome you to my home, milord – and thank you so much for bringing my niece to see me."  
Again, Erik glanced out of the corner of his eyes at Clarice, grinning brilliantly and suavely, his most refined and courteous nobleman's air about him.  

"I could not very well keep her away from you for all of these months without acceding to the demands of my conscience and bringing her back to see you, milady.  I only hope that you will forgive the enormous delay of a visitation.  We've had some…ah, very _interesting_ ordeals to keep us from coming to your fair city in the past months."

Clarice reached out and gently tapped him on the chest, shooting him a mock-disapproving glare with her sparkling green eyes, and turned to her aunt.

 "Please don't let anything that he says alarm you, Aunt Jacqueline dear – it is what passes for _humor_ at court."

The tall, darkly garbed Count bowed once again, his eyes taking on the same sparkle as that that was in Clarice's gaze.  "But of course!" he said, lightly, "And I hope that I might exchange much more than simply humor with you, in the way of verbal discourse, while we are here."

Clarice once again took her aunt's hand, leading the bemused lady out of the drawing room and into the hall, taking her towards the courtyard where a large, finely-built carriage now sat, its footmen scurrying about like dragonflies over a lake in summer as the six sleek-limbed and noble-tempered dappled gray steeds that pulled it waited patiently for the unloading to be finished.  

The young girl was almost bubbling over with excitement and talkativeness, and who could truly blame her?  She had much to tell her aunt of the months' past!

"Aunt Jacqueline, you'll never believe your eyes when you see all that we've brought: there's things from Milan – Genoa – Spain!  Oh, that was the most _incredible_ place!" she said, going to retrieve something out of the carriage, talking to her aunt all the while, as the much amused Erik stood to one side and simply watched her. 

"There were such exotic baubles in the market, and so many strange, foreign people, in every direction, as far as the eye could see!  And just you _wait _until I tell you what we're to do about the shop…"

Jacqueline visibly started at this, and she was about to ask what Clarice could possibly mean by her words when there was a sudden flurry of movement from the side wing of the house in which was located the kitchen, and then two familiar figures came hurrying out to the courtyard, calling Clarice's name and hallooing as they waved frantically.  

Seeing them, the girl stepped back to the ground, out of the carriage, and stepped forward, arms held out, as Chlöe and Mme. Colbert came to greet her.  The three women collided in a joyous embrace, all talking and laughing at once, and then the housekeeper, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief only briefly before she turned from the two young girls, extricated herself from the knot and rounded on her employer, wrapping him in an enthusiastic bear hug as she exclaimed, "Anyone in the world can call me a sentimental old fool now if that be their desire – but oh, my lord, it is _so_ good to see you again!  Safe and sound – both you and the young Miss!"

Erik stumbled back a bit at his housekeeper's initial onslaught, looking for a moment as if he had half-expected her to be attacking him for yet another breach in protocol towards his lovely young companion.  

"It's – good to see you as well, Mme. Colbert!" he said, a bit breathless as her hold on him was rather tight.

Mme. Colbert released him, her hands going for her hanky again, and she daintily blew her nose, then beamed up at him: her eyes traveling to Clarice as well, as she said, "Well, it's as I said – any person alive can call me foolish and sentimental, but it doesn't make me one _whit_ less glad to see you two, returned and perfectly sound!  But I'm making a scene here: come, let's get your things inside, and then you can all enjoy one another's company – you've not had your tea yet, have you?  Very well then; come along now…" And she turned back towards the house, Jacqueline following in her wake, as Clarice briefly fixed her friend with a long, pointed look, frowning a bit.  

"Both Mme. Colbert and Chlöe…_here_?  Erik, when did _this_ come to pass?"

He shrugged with a bit of a somewhat sheepish grin.

"Oh…I'd sent Mme. Colbert word that I wanted her to come here and keep your aunt company, look after her and help her in any way that she saw fit, quite some time ago – after…your uncle." 

He seemed uncomfortable mentioning the incident, and Clarice quite understood: it was surely humiliating enough for him to know that he had been accused of cold-blooded manslaughter, which was something totally outside of his character, and then to have to recall the episode with another party – Chlöe – about.  So she simply nodded, quelling her surprise at the realization that he had been looking after her family – her widowed aunt, and her! – for quite some time, without ever having mentioned it in the most unreserved of moments.  

Erik smiled at her once more, the expression faint and soft on his lips this time, and then he bowed to the two young women and left them, going into the house.  Then Clarice turned to Chlöe, fixing her confidant and handmaid with the same pointed gaze that she had just looked at the Count with.  

"Chlöe," she said, in a tell-me-the-whole-truth-and-nothing-but-the-truth tone, "You never mentioned to me in all of your letters that he'd done that."

Chlöe's warm, friendly eyes became slate-blue crescents as she smiled at Clarice and replied, gaily, "You silly thing – that was because you never asked!"

"Oh, _you_!"

Laughing, Chlöe made a dash towards the house, avoiding Clarice's playfully exasperated cuff towards her arm, and then stopping and winding her friend and mistress's arm through her own, leading her off towards the grounds that surrounded the house.  They walked through the kitchen gardens and the flowerbeds and the water garden, coming out to the very edge of the rolling green hills that made up a good part of the Boisvert estate.  

When they had come here, Clarice stopped suddenly: gazing out with distant emerald eyes into the far-off horizon, seeming to have left reality and traveled into the world of memory and imagination.  Chlöe stood in silence beside her for a moment, and then she ventured, "Claire?"

"It's amazing, Chlöe…" Clarice said, her voice soft and reflective. "I never thought that I would ever leave this place, all those months ago…and then I never thought that I would want to return to it, either – you would understand if you knew what it was like, here…"

Chlöe's eyes were knowing and compassionate, and she nodded, simply.  Clarice sighed deeply, seeming as if she had just freed herself of an enormous, pressing load that had weighed heavily on her shoulders for quite some long time, and straightened, her air becoming resolute and strong: determined and at peace with her own self.

"Life has a way of turning out much differently than we think…"

She paused.

"It never ceases to surprise us…"

*                       *                       *

That afternoon, after tea, when Mme. Colbert and Chlöe had disappeared from the drawing room with the dishes and leftover scraps from the much-welcomed repast, the plan of attack was laid out and battle lines were drawn—

For Clarice and her Count were going to war.

With Jacqueline's blessing and Godsend, they sallied forth into the landscape of Rouen, heading determinedly towards their destination: the city itself, and, more specifically, _Le Petit Rêvasse_.  And when they reached the store, Erik placed one hand firmly on the door and pushed it open, bringing Clarice inside after him by the hand: yellow eyes scanning the rooms beyond with a relentless, calm tenacity.  Clarice's fine, young features reflected much of the same: they were here for a purpose, and they would not be dissuaded from victory.

Not now: not when they had come so far.

This afternoon would see the defeat of evil before the sun had set.

"Mme. Toussaint?"

His clear voice rang cold and compelling against the wooden rafters in the ceiling, against the plain plastered walls, and there was a rustle of too many starched taffeta underskirts from the next room, and then Mme. Arnaude Toussaint had made her grand appearance.  She straightened abruptly upon seeing the tall, masked man who stood in the center of the shop: glaring down at her with cold, authoritative eyes of a bizarre yellow.  

Then, looking past him to the smaller, paler figure that stood at his side, almost in his shadow, the conniving landlady's beady, shrewish eyes narrowed at the sight of her most indestructible enemy: none other than a seventeen-year-old orphan, an artist by the name of Clarice Boisvert.

She suddenly had a sickening, twisted feeling in the very pit of her stomach: a sensation that told her that today was not to end well for her.

Or her plans.

Clearing her throat in a pseudo-calm, business-like manner, she attempted to fix her gaze on the dark figure before her, trying not to show that the sight of his glowering black mask had vastly unnerved her.  

"_Oui_ – and how may I help you, my good sir?"

Erik brought out the rent deed to the shop, the one that Clarice and Jacqueline had signed, in all good faith that the landlady would deal fairly and uprightly with them in all of the time that they would be its tenants, and displayed it for her, silent and glacial.  Then, he said in a voice that brooked no arguments, "This is the deed to the shop that you signed with Clarice and Jacqueline Boisvert, is it not?"

Mme. Toussaint, the feathers in her preposterous bonnet quivering only ever so slightly.  Clarice noticed, from her position slightly behind Erik's left shoulder, that the landlady's eyes had begun to bulge a bit, and that she had become quite pale.  She only barely stifled a triumphant snicker behind one hand.  _Mme. Toussaint, the cold, cruel, grasping, tyrannical old battle-ax of a proprietor, was paralyzed with fright!_

Erik put the deed away, replacing it back in the deep pocket of the billowing cloak that he wore; it swooped out like the wings of a gigantic bat whenever he moved, making him seem all the more intimidating – if such a thing were at all possible!  

Never once releasing the landlady's beady eyes from his own hard yellow gaze, he then asked her, "And did you sign it in good faith with Mme. and Mlle. Boisvert?"

Mme. Toussaint now seemed to turn a sickly shade of green.

_Oh, he's got her – she's squirming._

"Y-yes – of course!" She laughed, short and nonchalant, although the sound of it was a trifle forced and hard. "Why would I ever be tempted to do otherwise?"

If Erik had been playing intimidation games with her before, if only to see just how she might react in the face of true firmness, he now cut directly to the chase.

"Madame, you lie – you obviously did _not_ sign this deed in good faith with Mme. and Mlle. Boisvert, for you have made attempt to deal with them in an unceremoniously odious manner as of late, accusing them of breaching the contract on their rent and evading a proper level of incoming revenue.  It was quite clear all along that they had done no such thing, wasn't it?" His voice turned the words into a sneer, dripping with scorn and icy derision. "And yet you sought to cheat them out of what was, quite possibly, their only means of supporting themselves – not ceasing in your treachery even when you had heard report of the death of the only man of their house!  Do you deny it?"

"No!  I mean – yes, of course I do!  This is absurd, sir, and I will ask you to remove yourself at once from this establishment before I find it necessary to summon the law-officers of this fair city!"  

Mme. Toussaint darted quickly behind the store counter, looking as if she were a weasel caught between a rock wall and a pack of well-trained bloodhounds, the foremost of which bore a pair of burning, Hadean yellow eyes.

Erik only laughed: coldly and clearly.

"No, I am afraid that that simply _cannot_ be done," he said, "For, Madame, if you will now permit me, I would fain make you known to an associate of mine – M. du Monde."

And the tall dark man turned slightly, sweeping one long arm wide to gesture to the third person to enter the shop: a medium-sized, slender, dark-haired and pale man of some thirty years of age, who stood at the back of the party, quiet and attentive.  Mme. Toussaint stared at him for a moment of broad consternation, and then she attempted to laugh the whole situation off again, as she lifted one too-much-plucked eyebrow and guessed, sarcasm dripping from her tones now, "Your bodyguard?"

Erik's lips twisted in a show of dangerous amusement.

"My _solicitor_."

And Mme. Toussaint's face went completely ashen...

Finally, Clarice stepped forward: facing the landlady who had been the bane of her young life for so long boldly and confidently, green eyes piercing into the conniving woman's very soul and refusing to let her escape their gaze.

"Yes, indeed, Madame," she said, in the same calm, cold voice that the Count had just used, coming around him as he fell back, watching her with exulting pleasure written across the visible parts of his face and gleaming in his eyes. "M. du Monde is the personal attorney of the man who you now see standing before you, who is none other than the Count d'Auberie."  

Mme. Toussaint gave a tiny squawk, and Clarice smiled in fiendish glee at the reaction. 

"You have heard the name, perhaps?  I see.  Now, I think that we have several things to discuss as to the ownership of this fine establishment…or do you still insist on calling in the local law-enforcement?"

*                       *                       *

"Oh, Erik, we've done it – we've _limed_ her!  Heavens above, did you see the look on her face when you told her that we could have her clapped in the city gatehouse before she could so much as squeak in protest?  It was precious!"

Clarice crowed these words in utter triumph as she fell onto the narrow, hard bed that took up most of the space in the tiny second-floor garret room that was in the _Petit Rêvasse_, cackling in unashamed delight at the victory that they had just won over the mean old ogre of a landlady who had for so long plagued both the girl and her aunt with her unreasonable demands.  

Her companion, Erik, came up the stairs behind her and stood in the doorway, leaning one shoulder up against its frame and looking across the room to her with a gentle, fond smile etching into one side of his mouth.  Clarice shook her head, laughing as she gazed up at the ceiling of the building – the shop that was now hers, and her aunt's, for all of time, without any question or contest.  Then, she rolled over slightly, propping herself up on one elbow, and looked at him.  Her green eyes were merry, lighting her face with an extraordinary beauty.

"Erik, Erik…" she said, with admiring tenderness. "How can I _ever_ thank you enough – how can I ever repay you?  Is it even possible?  How could I ever do anything to even slightly pay my eternal debt to you for what you've done for me today…for _us_?"

Rousing himself from his lounging position in the doorway, he came across the room and stood beside the bed, looking down on her as he moved two fingers to gently stroke the worn, quilted coverlet that had been spread across the bed, running them across its surface near to her face.  Clarice gazed up at him, her eyes soft and happy.

"I think you already have…" he said, at length.  

Then he went to the window that the bed sat to one side of and looked out.  The sun was quickly setting in the horizon beyond, staining the sky with golden-orange and tangerine-red; it had rained that afternoon, a late summer thunderstorm and rain shower, and now the air was close and damp with humidity, as steam rose in almost visible clouds from the soaking wet ground, filling the air with the scent of earth and growing green things.  All was quiet.

Clarice stood and came to stand beside and slightly to the back of him, her eyes following his to gaze out the window momentarily.  Then, after glancing at him briefly, she slipped her arms about his waist, resting her cheek against the curving, hard plain of his broad, strong back: the dark silk of his cloak cool and sleek against her flushed cheek.  Feeling her slender, soft arms about him, he closed his eyes: suppressing what might have almost been called a deep, painful shudder.  

Mistaking his reaction for revulsion at her touch, she reluctantly let go of him, stepping away and averting her eyes to the dusty wooden floorboards.  As soon as her hands had left him, he turned – abruptly rounding on her – his yellow eyes flicking to meet hers, as his lips parted slightly.  He stared at her for a moment, and then he stepped towards her, coming so close to her that they were touching, and gathered both of her hands into his, raising them so that they rested against his chest.  

Looking deep into her eyes – the windows of her soul – he breathed in deeply, and murmured her name: "_Clarice_…"

Click.

Slam.

_Crash._

"_Careful_, you blundering idiot!" a voice hissed, from downstairs in the main room of the shop.  Both Erik and Clarice froze where they were, stiffening with horror, and the voice continued, speaking in the same hushed, infuriated tone, "Do you want the whole blasted village to know we're here?  Pick that up and follow me – and for the love of all that is holy, _don't touch anything else_!"

Another deeper voice grumbled an incoherent, although scarcely sincere, apology, and the pair in the garret room faintly heard the click of booted footsteps moving across the floor below them.  Erik's head swiveled from the open doorway, which led up from the rooms below to the garret room, to face Clarice: his skin becoming deathly pale, his eyes wide and dark.

_The Marquis de Mercier!_

Clarice felt as if she was about to be violently sick.  Their worst enemy, whom they had thought they had left behind in Milan: along with all of their most bitter troubles, had come to Rouen, and was now standing directly below them, in all likeliness accompanied by yet another – or _several_ – of his rough-and-tumble lackeys!  And they were trapped!  

What were they going to do?

"Mumble mumble grunt?"

"No, you _dullard_, I _don't_ want you to go out back and see if they left that way – that hideous, fat old cow who was just here said that they hadn't the keys to open that door, which locks from the outside for some reason or another!  No, they're still somewhere here, in this shop, and I aim to find them…no matter _what_ it takes."

Behind her, Clarice sensed – rather than heard – Erik make a sound of utter, dire hatred somewhere deep in his chest, and she backed further away from the door, into him: wanting for his warmth to calm and reassure her, to let her know that they would find some means of escape, that they would not be caught here, like rats in a trap, by the Marquis de Mercier and his cronies.  

Suddenly, more conversation from downstairs.

"That doorway over there – what's beyond it?"

"Mumble mumble mumble."

"Of course…"

Clarice's eyes turned on Erik with absolute terror and panic in their emerald green depths – those two words could only mean one thing—

_In the next moment, the Marquis and his companion would come up the stairs to the garret room…and they would be found!_

Abruptly then, his hand clamped down on hers and he was moving towards the window.  Clarice stiffened in horror, remembering how the hinges on the thing were rusty with disuse – if he were to open it…  

But then he slid the window open without a sound, and, almost before she had realized what he was doing, he had stepped out of it, onto the sloping roof below, and was hurriedly beckoning for her to climb out and join him there.  

Clarice was not stupid or witless enough to protest; she knew what danger was when she saw it – or rather, _heard_ it.  So without a single noise to betray her movements, she slipped out of the window, letting him put his hands about her slender waist and assist her down, and then they both ducked under the broad awning that was made by the window seat above them.

Then, they held their breath…

_And waited!_

Eternity might have passed in those next horrible moments of waiting and fear – she wouldn't have been able to tell whether it was three seconds or three lifetimes that had gone by.  All she could think to do was remain absolutely still, her head buried in the chest of her dearest friend and closest comrade, and hope – and pray – that they would not be seen by the two men who were inside of the shop.  The seconds slipped by…

_Creak!_

Then, impatiently, from inside, "Well?"

"There's nowt to see out there, m'lord – they must've flown the coop before we were ever here."

"I think I told you before that I could really not give _less_ of a care for your idiotic pretensions.  Now look again."

_CREAK._

Their hearts beat as one, furious and loud.

"Still nothing?" Wryly.

Silence.

A sigh.  "Oh for the love of…out of the way."

Silence.

"You're out there – I can feel you…you can't hide forever!"

A jerk on her hand, a loss of balance, clattering footsteps, a rush of pure terror, a shout from the window – "NOOOO!"; a shriek of pure rage, more footfalls from behind them.  They were running, helter-skelter, reckless and lightning fast, down the sloping roof, heading for the roof of another building nearby, one which was connected to the _Petit Rêvasse_, part of one long chain of shops in the outskirts of Rouen.  She could only follow behind her companion as he half-dragged, half-carried her along with him, dashing away from that roof as if all is Chiron himself had left his river to fetch them away, and was now giving pursuit.  

Suddenly, Erik stopped and looked down; there was a gap in the roofs before them.  Clarice glanced back and saw two figures fast gaining on them – one, whom she recognized all too well—  

"Erik!" she cried, looking back to him.

"Jump!" was his only reply, and then, grabbing her arm with one hand, he made them do just that – right off of the roof, and into an extremely convenient cartload of dense, prickly hay that was passing through the alleyway underneath them just at that moment.  

Suddenly, two other bodies hit the hay, at almost the exact time as them, and Clarice, struggling to unbury herself from the mounds of golden livestock feed that now threatened to entirely impede any further escape on her part, felt rough hands grabbing at her, laying hold of her hair and wrenching it until she shrieked, angry and defensive, with the pain.  

She began to fight like a wildcat, kicking and striking out and scratching, and whomever it was that happened to have made the mistake of grabbing her abruptly let go of her with a furious exclamation that made her ears burn, reeling back after she had raked her well-manicured weapons of nails across the first stretch of skin that was made available.  

Erik, meanwhile, had managed to fight himself to his feet, only to glimpse a blurred sight of the Marquis de Mercier as he launched himself across the cart to tackle him, throwing the both of them into the heaps of hay.  

_Thwack!_  

His knuckles made good, hard contact with the younger nobleman's cheekbone, and threw him off.  Erik stood and caught sight of Clarice's pale lavender gown in the hay, and he reached forward, grabbing a chunk of it and pulling.  There was a passionate bout of thrashing underneath the golden stuff, and he threw himself into it, searching for her – and it wasn't until he was almost sprawled on top of her that they found one another.  

Gasping as he hauled himself backwards, face reddening uncontrollably beneath the mask, he reached out a hand: "Come on!"

Together they scrambled on their hands and knees to the edge of the cart, and then fell as one out of it, landing hard on the cobblestone road below just as the driver of the cart exclaimed in complete surprise and turned around, having finally become aware of the commotion that the four people who were fighting in the back of his cart were making amongst themselves.  

"Sorry – drive on!" Erik yelled as he grabbed Clarice's hand and pulled her after him once again.  They dashed across the street and into an alley, hearing the Marquis's voice – high-pitched and enraged – shrieking behind them, "They're escaping – get after them, _YOU UNBELIEVABLY STUPID SOD_!"

If the situation hadn't been so desperate, Erik might have been tempted to stop right where he was and have a good long laugh at his enemy's expense and humiliation – but as for the moment, all that he could do was continue to run.

Through the alleys, across several streets, and even in and out of some stores they fled, never once looking behind them for fear of losing valuable distance between the two of them and the Marquis and his cohort.  They were causing a great ruckus in the city – but neither of them really cared, or even _noticed_.  

Suddenly, they were at a canal that ran through the city: dashing over a bridge that spanned the dark, silky waters.  

Erik looked down into them for a split second, glanced behind them at the road that they had just come off of, and made a single spur-of-the-moment decision: putting both himself and Clarice over the railing, he gathered her hand in his once again, looked at her, and spoke.

"Deep breath!"

And then they jumped.

The Marquis and his companion heard a splash, and the arrogant young nobleman shouted in fury, rushing forward with a fresh burst of speed, as his lackey began to lag behind.  He pounded onto the bridge and ran to the railing, peering over its edge and into the rushing waters of the canal, which led out of the city and into the unsettled lands beyond – far from the city of Rouen.  Again, his quarry had escaped him.

His shriek of rage ripped through the peaceful afternoon air.

"_NO!_"

*                       *                       *

Half an hour later – and several miles downstream – the two extremely bedraggled figures of the Count d'Auberie and Clarice Boisvert hauled themselves out of the waters of the river that they had cast themselves into to avoid being taken by their shared worst enemy, the Marquis de Mercier.  

One arm flung about her waist, Erik helped Clarice pulled herself up onto the water-sodden, muddy shore and then they lay there, her back curving up against his chest, his arm still draped over her waist.  Both were breathing hard.

Then Clarice raised her head – only slightly, and with much effort, at that – and looked up and over her shoulder to him, her eyebrows raising slightly into her forehead, her skin pale and cold, mud and peat moss smeared across her cheek.

"So…" she said, shivering slightly with the cold.  Around them, the French forest was silent but for its normal sounds of birds singing and taking wing, insects buzzing after the afternoon's storm, and the wind blowing through the tree leaves and undergrowth.  She could smell his dampened cologne, faint on the wet air.  "Life never ceases to be an adventure with you, does it?"

He let his head flop down to rest, in exhaustion, in the curve of her neck and shoulder, and she dropped her head back down to the ground, closing her eyes.

"No, _ma belle_…I think that I can assure you it _doesn't_."       

*                       *                       *

Of course, when they arrived home, walking in quite a different direction than whence they had gone earlier that afternoon – both tousled, still slightly damp from their adventure in the river, and worn to the bone with exhaustion, Clarice having the Count's heavy, long cloak draped over her shoulders in his attempt to make her comfortable – they were in for some explanations.  Jacqueline, Mme. Colbert, and Chlöe had all expected them home within the hour of their departure to the shop, and when the two at last showed up at the Boisvert manor again, after a full three hours absence, they were greeted with a passionate display of righteous feminine anger.  

Where had they been, and what on _earth_ had they been doing?

The three women were given a much scaled-down story of what had truly happened, artfully created by the pair on their long walk back from the forest riverside, and then both Erik and Clarice were bundled off by their highly-displeased compatriots, and forbidden to so much as speak to one another until the next morning, or there would be all the world to pay.  

Clarice had her hair thoroughly washed and combed out by her aunt, who plied her with so many questions as to her whereabouts that afternoon that she thought she would die of desperation to escape to bed before it was all over, and her bath administered to her by a silent Chlöe, who seemed – after the first initial outburst of displeasure – to be rather amused at the whole affair.  

Erik was more fortunate: he could, at least, escape Mme. Colbert and her questions, since he was a full-grown adult in his own right, and her employer to boot!  After ordering one of the servants who had accompanied his housekeeper in her journey from his castle to bring him whatever was leftover from dinner, and telling Mme. Colbert that she was entitled to no more of an explanation than he had already given her, the elusive nobleman shut the door to his room: throwing a towel over one shoulder as evidence to the fact that he _very_ much desired to simply wash up and go to bed.

Jacqueline did not leave Clarice until she had thoroughly expressed her disapproval of this latest deviance from proper behavior, but then she finally left the girl to her room and the carefully sanctioned care of her handmaid.  Chlöe brought in a tray of dinner – a thin broth with fresh vegetables scattered in it, a sliver of blackberry tart, and part of a breast of baked chicken, along with a cup of tea and a slice of bread – and set before Clarice, who ate it silently and reflectively.  

Then she sat at the foot of the bed and watched her for a long while, wordlessly, until Clarice finally set her spoon down and looked at her, squarely.

"_You_ don't need to censure me as well," she said, reprovingly.

Chlöe smiled, her dimples showing as her slate-blue eyes sparkled merrily.

"Who said that I was censuring you, sweet Claire?"

Clarice pushed a slice of carrot that was in her soup around with her spoon, eyeing it as if it had a mind to jump out of its dish and betray her, for a moment before she muttered, "That's just _it_ – you weren't _saying_ anything, but the look in your eyes are enough to tell me what you're thinking of me right now, and I tell you, it _isn't_ so."

"I wonder." Chlöe said, standing up, and Clarice raised her head abruptly, two spots of indignant scarlet appearing on her cheeks, green eyes blazing.

"Chlöe!  What do you _think_ happened?"

The other girl shrugged.

"Consider it – you walked up, wet and dirty, at a much later time than we had expected, from a totally different direction than you had left in.  What _else_ would one have to conclude but that you'd both been out adventuring, and hadn't breathed so much as a _word _about it to any of us?"

" 'Adventuring' meaning kissing passionately behind someone's barn!" Clarice retorted, irefully, and Chloe's eyes sparkled all the more.

"Your words, not mine, my dear." 

She sat down again at the foot of the bed, folding some of her mistress's freshly washed clothing.  Then, after a moment of silence, she looked up at Clarice, grinning at her knowingly. 

"Now, _I_ know that that was not what you were doing, and _you_ know that that was not what you were doing, but neither you _nor_ his Lordship the Count are saying, so I'll simply leave it at that.  'Tis not my place to pry – or judge."

"Then you believe me?"

Chlöe gave her a mock-offended look.

"Belike!"

The two were silent again.  Then Chlöe added, "But you wouldn't have minded it if that _were _the truth now, _would_ you?"

And all Clarice could do was turn a bright, telltale red and hide her face as Chloe's friendly laughter rang cheerful and loud in the gabled room.

*                       *                       *

A/N:  So, obviously, other people are taking notice of the *ahem!  cough cough* rather deep attraction between Erik and Clarice…but what will come of it?  Will we ever see these two together, having realized their true feelings for one another?  (Let me ask you another question: when have I ever written otherwise?  There you go…)  To the next chapter, shall we?


	17. Bliss

A/N:  The chapter title should tell you just about all that you could want to know about the events within.  Oh, and please r&r lots to tell me what you think.  The first person to give me my 100th review on this story wins a prize…(and let me assure you, it will be *good*!)

Chapter Sixteen – 

Bliss

Slowly, late summer waned: the sweltering hot, humid air gradually cooled and a fresh new breeze that brought with it swirls of crisp dried leaves and whispers of the coming season came down out of the mountains, and off of the distant sea.  Autumn approached with the graceful, serene air of a queen moving in the refined steps of a courtly pavane.  

Change was in the air…

This was reflected in life at the Boisvert manor.  Clarice and her aunt were able to, with the assistance of their noble guest and servant friends, bring the _Petit Rêvasse_ back into full subsistence once again, and business flourished there.  Jacqueline relished the knowledge that she and her niece now finally, truly owned the shop, and immersed herself quite happily into running it and managing all affairs related to its existence.  Clarice procured several more lovely pictures – drawings, paintings, and sketches – and proudly placed them up for sale, and they were sold faster than love charms in the spring.

But, in truth, she found that her heart had left the simple joy of living at the outskirts of Rouen and running the shop with her aunt.  No, now she found herself longing – with a deep and irresistible urge – to be elsewhere, out in the great wide world, living the much different life that she had come to so deeply cherish as her own…

*                       *                       *

September 9th dawned on the scenery of Rouen: cool and breezy, with a thick layer of clouds, in varying shades of gray, blanketing the blueness of the sky.  Out in the courtyard of the Boisvert manor, three carriages could be seen awaiting their passengers, and all were loaded down with luggage and other items.  A large party, it was evident, would soon be departing.

Reluctant good-byes were said, as tears were stridently kept in check, and the footmen and drivers took their places, assisting the ladies inside their modes of transport and then climbing up to their respective positions.  The tall, dark figure of the nobleman in the group – the Count d'Auberie – was the last to step into the third carriage in the line, and as soon as he had taken his seat, the door closing behind him, he removed the hood of his cloak and looked across the space to his companion.  

She was sitting on the side of the seat that was nearest to the house, resting her chin on one curled-up hand, the elbow of which was propped up against the ledge of the window: her large, emerald green eyes were distant and soft, and she seemed to be in deep thought, or memory.  He looked at her silently for a moment, his own eyes warm and tender, before he spoke, gently.

"Will you be all right – now that you've said goodbye?"

And Clarice stirred from her reverie, returning from whatever realm of thought that she had been in to the grip of reality, and inhaled suddenly, sitting up straight.  Her eyes flicked from the view out the window to look at him, and her full, red lips curved sweetly into a small smile.

"Goodbye doesn't always have to be forever…" she said. "So…yes.  I will be all right.  Thank you for having the kindness to ask."

He leaned forward: only ever so slightly, gazing deeply into her young face, his eyes unreadable from behind the mask that he wore.

"It isn't a kindness," he told her, tenderly. "It is a natural impulse."

They looked at each other with blank expressions for a moment longer then, and suddenly both of their faces split into bright grins, and they sat back against the walls of the carriage, laughing until they had no breath to continue.  Only then did Erik gaze at her again, shaking his head as his eyes continued to sparkle with mirth.  Putting on a truly deadpan look, he commented in mock graveness to her, "You know, your aunt nearly had me sell her my soul in order to let you come along."

Her face reflected an inner impishness, as did her mischievous reply of, "Mine as well."  

With the same complete solemnity of voice and manner, he revealed, "She had me swear that I would see to it, for _certain_, that you were in bed by eight thirty every night."

And laughter rang out in the carriage once again, as its driver picked up the reins and lightly tapped them against the backs of the steeds that drew it, making the carriage lurch forward on the gravel courtyard and then slowly rumble out of it, towards the road, and their next destination: Paris.

The trip took them several days, but not nearly as long as the journey from Roses, Spain, back to Rouen.  Of course, if their course had been simply to the Count's castle, it would have been a much shorter time abroad in France, but they had had business to attend to in Rouen, and therefore, there lay their way.  Now they would go to Paris, where yet another grand festival was to be held in celebration of the oncoming autumn season, at the very palace of the King himself.  The Count d'Auberie, as one of the King's most favored compatriots, held an irrevocable invitation to this annual fete – however, this year, the masked nobleman would attend the revelries with a partner: who would surely be hailed as the most beautiful, most exquisite lady ever to grace court ever in its glamorous history…

Clarice and Erik spent the hours in the carriage together with much enjoyment: they spoke of their travels so far together, recounting with humor the many escapades that they had had while abroad from their homes, and he told her of his many journeys throughout the lands of the world that they knew, both near and far.  They spoke of the things that they had seen, and he told her many stories that explained some of the sights they had witnessed with each other.  She asked him of what the ball that they would be attending would be like, and he told her; she told him about her life in Rouen, making him laugh lightheartedly with the adventures of her childhood and younger years, and then he spoke of the land that they were passing through, and many other things.  

And sometimes she would leave him for a short while to ride in the other carriage of the three in their party, sitting with Mme. Colbert and Chloe so that she and her best friend could chatter and giggle and gossip together as young things of their age are wont to do, whilst the long-suffering housekeeper sat on the other side of the carriage with her sewing and shook her head, sometimes in exasperation, sometimes in amusement, at their antics.  It was decided between Chloe and her young mistress that she and the Count would attend the ball wearing coordinating costumes, as it was to be – a great surprise indeed! – a masquerade.  

Erik, of course, was a bit wary of the plot that they had concocted between each other when they presented it to him: reacting as most of his gender are apt to do when faced with such a situation.  

During their hours together, the two girls discussed, debated, and slowly fabricated the plans for a most wondrous gown for Clarice to wear to the ball: she would be the Fae Queen, and the somewhat reluctant Count would be the Fae King.  

"They will make _quite_ the pair!" Chloe announced to Mme. Colbert, who nodded to those words and continued with her sewing, inwardly thinking with pity of what the poor Count would now find himself subjected to at the hands of the highly imaginative young ladies.

Slowly, their retinue neared Paris.

On the day before they arrived at the city, Erik had taken a seat next to Clarice in the carriage and was resting his head familiarly on her shoulder, his eyes taking in her every movement as she wrote, swiftly and neatly, in her storybook with the quill pen that he had bought her on their last stop.  Distantly, his voice soft, he asked, "Read it to me?"

With a fond smile curving her ruby lips, she turned her head to gaze at him briefly, and then she replied, "I will do so, if you wish – but do not expect the words of Virgil or Homer to fall from my lips.  I am only an _amateur_ at this."

"Ah, but an amateur who I care _much_ more for than either M. Virgil _or_ M. Homer!" he fired back, warmly.  Then, moving the fingers of one hand to abstractedly tangle themselves in the mass of curls that hung over her shoulder, pooling at her waist, he murmured, "I would rather hear your voice, reading the words that you have written, than anything else in the world."

She bent a faintly wry glance upon him.

"_Anything_?" she asked.

He smiled, slightly self-effaced, avoiding direct eye contact with her.

"Almost."

Forbearing to tease him more – _verbally_, at least – she sat back, putting down her quill pen, and smoothed the pages of the book, reading to him what she had written most recently.  When she had done, he looked at her, inquiringly – almost darkly.

"And so what will happen to the prince Skye and his daring, but seemingly doomed rescue attempt of the infant princess?  Will he somehow save both himself and the child from the goblins, or is all now lost for them?"

Clarice shrugged: her eyes becoming distant once more, and he knew that – as he watched her gaze move out the window of the carriage to look at the depths of the deep, tangled forest that was now passing them by – she had traveled back into the fantastic but esoteric and untouchable world of her wondrous imagination.  

"I do not know…" she murmured.  Then, coming back to reality, "Perhaps I will simply end it, short and sweet – '_And at last, reinforcements arrived through the magical portal, Elven warriors who had followed their prince in his chase after the goblins, and together, they vanquished the twisted creatures, and banished those who survived to the darkness from whence they had come.  And…they all lived happily ever after._' "

Her voice was reluctant, and almost loathing even as she said those very words: seeming as if, for once, she did not truly believe that they belonged in existence.  

Erik sat up straight again, turning slightly in his seat so that he faced her fully, and his yellow eyes bored into hers, scanning over her face with a both knowing and confused darkness within them, as if he did not know what to think of her at that moment.  Finally he said, very nearly cryptically, "I do not think that that is how you wish to end it, _ma belle_ – in your mind and in your heart, you know that that is _not_ the way that you want the story to come to its end."

Her voice was slightly ragged and breathless, as she leaned forward, gazing at him as if he was her only lifeline: as if he was the Prince Skye, and she the captured princess, no longer a child but a maiden who was still young in the eyes of the Elven people, but old enough to hold a wealth of knowledge and memory in the depths of her emerald eyes.  

"Tell me – what should I do?"

His eyes never moved from hers.

"You know how you desire it to end."

Clarice sat back, her gaze dropping, and looked instead at her hands as she twisted them in a tight knot in her lap, thought furrowing her smooth, fine young brow.

"I do…don't I?" 

She lifted her head, eyes moving to look out the window again, the deep green depths of the dark forest beyond mirrored within them. 

_And then, all at once, the bands of goblins had surrounded him, all brandishing their weapons and leering cruelly at their captured prey.  One of them tore the wailing baby princess harshly, unfeeling, out of his arms, and he cried out, reaching towards her in a desperate, feeble attempt to rescue her once again from their clutches.  But the roughshod, unmerciful foot of one of the goblins – their chief leader – came down upon his arm, throwing him prone to the ground.  Through the haze of pain, defeat, and weariness, he looked up at his tormentor: anger and defiance in his eyes.  _

_The goblin captain sent him a chilling, relentlessly cruel and malicious look: a cold smile that would have frozen the soul of even the bravest of Elven warriors, and said, with a voice that was terribly un-goblin-like, almost human: a spiteful gleam of true hatred for Skye and all of his race in its yellow eyes, 'Take the child.  Leave me to deal with this fool.'_

_And Skye cried out in rage, once again, as the goblins who held the child now turned away to do that bidding.  The goblin captain raised an arm and struck him across the face, leaving him lying flat on the ground, his senses dulled and reeling from the harsh blow.  Then, the rest of the goblins who remained closed in around him.  Skye had only a moment longer to pray that, whatever they did to him, it would all be over quickly.  He could not bear to think of living any longer with the knowledge that he had failed both the Elven King and Queen in his quest to rescue their daughter…_

_But, it soon became apparent, this was _exactly_ what they had in mind for him._

When she had pronounced the last syllables of the words in that story, she let her head droop and she murmured, "And even when there is so much light and good in the world, the darkness will still remain, to pain and haunt us."

"Not forever." Erik told her, his voice ardent with restrained emotion, and she melted into his arms, burying herself within their secure, protective depths.

_Never forever…_

*                       *                       *

It was the night of the autumn masque ball at the King's palace in Paris.

Nobility of all ages, appearances, and rank sprang out of the ether that the background of France as a whole provided, and all who had been privileged enough to attain invitations to this most prestigious of events made their way, at summons, to the city.  On this night of September 23rd, Paris was a-swarm with life, colour, and activity: thousands of people were there, all adding to the living picture of sparkling, free-for-all gaiety.  Although the actual ball itself was not to begin until eight o'clock that evening, the palace and the grounds surrounding it were already full of guests in full costume.  Liveried servants went here and there through the crowds, bearing silver and gold platters of canapés, wine, and other sorts of refreshments, as musicians played sweetly in the background.

In the set of rooms that belonged to the elusive Count d'Auberie, however, there still remained quite a few people – for it had been decreed that now, at last, was the time for Clarice, his Lordship's lady partner, to ready herself for the festivities.

A vast army of hairdressers, cosmetic artists, not under ten assistants of both groups, and various other servants – all commanded by a confident and authoritative Chloe – were there, beginning what would surely be their greatest work yet on the most beautiful subject that they had ever, and would ever, in all likeliness, have to deal with.  Clarice bemusedly let herself be passed from hand to hand: from bath to hairdresser, who piled some of her thick, ebony mane onto her head, braided and twisted and curled other parts of it, and studded it all over with gems, feathers, ribbons, and other sorts of ethereal regalia, then leaving her to the makeup artist.  

"_Ah, ses caractéristiques lisses et ovales font un canevas blanc seul, attendant son tableau!_*" exclaimed the man when he had seen her. "_Cherie_, I will cherish the memory of this night – in which _I_ was the one privileged to only further illuminate the gorgeous beauty of your flawless features!  _Irréprochable_*!"

Onto the skin of her face, neck, collarbones, and bare shoulders went a dusting of a fine white powder, which sparkled and shimmered against the natural pallor of her complexion.  Her cheekbones were brushed delicately with deep, raspberry red rouge, and a gloss of garnet hue was applied to her lips, drawing attention to their perfect curves and fullness.  Her eyes were outlined with a sweep of cobalt blue kohl – so dark that it was nearly black – and a dusting of yet another white powder was placed upon her lids, sparkling like ground diamonds.  As a final touch, the makeup artist placed two tiny diamonds at the corners of both her eyes, then stood back and pronounced her, "_Magnifique_!"

And all had to agree – indeed, she _was_.

Once this had been done, the real trial began: she had to be moved from the vanity table to the middle of the room, and stood upon a dais-like platform, while the dressing assistants went to work.  Chloe, of course, stood to one side and coached them all, watching each with a stern, unrelenting eye so that not one would make a single mistake.  She was presented with silk stockings, the latest novelty among the most fashionable ladies at court, a corset to be worn over her lacy shift, and a gigantic cloud of stiff white tulle petticoats.           

Then, the costume gown of the Fae Queen was at last brought forth, borne in the arms of the maidservants who held it like a precious and holy relic.  Clarice stared at it, transfixed by its luminous beauty.  

All of silver and pale blue and white, it was: seeming as if it had just descended from the clouds of which it was made.  Jewels innumerable and ribbons and laces and other fineries abounded in it; pale sapphires and diamonds and pearls glowed in the candlelight of the room.  Reverently, as if she was a member of the clergy crowning an emperor, Chloe came forward and slipped the gown down over Clarice's head, very careful not to let it touch either the girl's makeup or hair, and then she moved behind her to fasten its laces.  

Clarice stood still while this was being done, looking at the floor at her feet.  

Her heart beat lightly, rapidly: growing ever more loud and insistent.  She could feel the cool, deft caress of satin against her skin, the gentle tickle of lace, the brush of stiff tulle.  Whenever she moved, she could hear the swishing whisper of her skirts, which seemed to tell secrets that only their wearer could fathom.  The curls of her hair that had been left down by the coiffeur whisked against bare skin; her cheeks flushed an even deeper shade of crimson than they had been powdered.

For once, she was truly conscious of the fact that, tonight, _she was beautiful_.

When Chloe had finished tying the laces at the back of the gown, she stood away and received from one of the other maidservants a long, full veil of sparkling, sheer whiteness that she pinned to Clarice's hair on either side of her head, letting it fall gracefully down her back like a shimmering waterfall.  A pair of satin dancing slippers, encrusted with diamonds and pale sapphires and opals and pearls, was then slipped onto the girl's feet; a bejeweled mask was handed to her…

And the Fae Queen stood before them all.

*                       *                       *

The ballroom floor was empty, a dance having just ended; all of the guests stood to one side, talking and moving about amongst themselves, as the musicians rested briefly, already preparing for the next song.  All of the candles in the room had begun to burn low, casting a soft, ambient light upon every surface, as the gentle, blue-white glow of the moon flowed in through every window.  

Then – a hush fell over the room.  A ripple of murmuring voices, fraught with wonder and curiosity, went through the crowd, as all turned…

A single costumed guest, a masked lady, stood in the center of the room, having just entered it through the huge set of doors that were to be found at one end.  She was a pale, cool, dazzling beauty, garbed in an array of silver, white, and pale blue, with a river of ebony hair falling down her back and a pair of emerald eyes that sparkled like those very gemstones.  Wordless and graceful, she remained where she was, like a living statue.

The Fae Queen.

Within the crowd, another lone figure became apparent.  It was the tall, slender but well-formed, elegant but powerful form of a man: garbed all in white, silver, and pale blue he was as well, but for the mask that he wore, which was a smooth, gleaming black.  From behind it looked out a pair of entrancing, bizarre golden eyes, which focused intensely on the beauty before him, looking directly into hers and seeing nothing else.

The Fae King.

Standing still, the perilously fair creature waited for him.

He came out of the crowd, moving towards her.

And then…he held out his hand.

Every movement and sound in the ballroom halted: everyone freezing where they were, riveted by the strange, silent scene that was unfolding before them.  The air was spellbound, enchanted…wonderful.

The hands of the two touched and intertwined: the man drawing his companion towards himself, locking both of their hands between them, and continued to gaze down into her eyes.  The vague beginnings of a knowing smile flickered at his lips, and – slowly – her mouth curved into a captivating smile.  The words were so nearly tangible on the air that they didn't even have to be spoken.  _Shall we dance?_

*                       *                       *

Erik led them both out to their positions on the floor, gazing into Clarice's lovely young face as she beamed at him in complete happiness.  Gallantly, he bowed over her hand as she curtsied to him, his eyes shimmering with barely contained mirth.  Behind them, the other guests at the masque stood by, too mesmerized by the sight of such an unearthly beautiful couple to move out and join them, seemingly unwilling to do so.  Strains of music filled the air.

And then they began to dance.

_Once upon a time…_

It was all too wonderful, all too indescribably lovely – it seemed as if it must be a dream.  She had long thought this to be so, even when they had been running for their lives…for it felt, to her, as if everything in her life – in herself – was perfect when she was with him…when they were together.  This world, and the next…completion…

_Once upon a time…_

Could anything compare to the feel of his arms around her, to the ever-present, tender strength and warmth of his embrace, his presence?  It had been with her for so long: from the moment that they had first met, and even before then, and she wanted nothing else, as shocking as it seemed.  She buried her head in his chest, closing her eyes and leaning into his reassuring, protective strength.  The scent of him washed over her: fresh and new as a forest in spring, and yet also as timeless and wild as the mountains, evergreen and dark.  All she wanted to do was hold him.  These were not the fancies of an unsteady, fickle young girl…no, it was something much deeper, something infinitely more ageless, true as the dawn… 

_Once upon a time…_

Here they were, here they would always stay.  They were together.

"Erik…" she whispered.

He looked down at her, tipping her chin up with one finger, and gazed deeply into her eyes for a moment, reading her soul as no one else could.

"You are incredible, _bien-aimé de mon coeur _*," he told her. "No one else is as wonderful as you – nothing else can be as beautiful as the world is when I am with you…and tonight, I hold one eternal knowledge in my heart…"

Around them, the music swept, whirling them about, twirling them into one another.  She looked into his eyes, into that masked face.  Her heart beat loud.

"And this…_all_ of this, is true because _you_ are _you_, and _I_ am _me_…and together, we are a fairy tale, a happy ending.  I know this without a single shadow of a doubt in my heart…and tonight, _I will prove it before the entire world_."

And then, without preamble or fuss, he bent his head, drawing her close to him and ceasing the dance between both of them, their feet rooting to the ground, her fingers twining with each other behind his neck, his heart beating in time with hers…

He kissed her.

*                       *                       *

A/N:  *sniffs, wipes eyes with hanky* I hate to have to do this now but…read on…  *sniffs again and reaches for the box of tissues*

_*  Ah, ses caractéristiques lisses et ovales font un canevas blanc seul, attendant son tableau!_ – Ah, her smooth, oval features are like a white canvas, awaiting its painting! 

_*  Irréprochable_! – Flawless!

_*  Bien-aimé de mon coeur_ – beloved of my heart


	18. Nightmare

A/N:  Okay, I'm _not_ going to make a big scene here, I really am not going to do that, the show must go on – but prepare for a bit of sadness here, although I promise (to avoid being promptly roasted) that all will turn out well.  I am the Happy Ending Queen!  All will be well!  Okay, now on with the story.  Here's some action scenes for ya.

Chapter Seventeen – 

Nightmare

She was so beautiful when she slept – so absolutely perfect.

When he looked at her, he felt complete: he felt as if nothing else in the world could matter but _her_, and that _she_ was all that he had ever wanted.  

How absurd, would be the world's reaction to that thought, if he had voiced it out loud so that all ears could hear.  How absolutely idiotic and utterly misled, the world would say – he was wealthy and influential and powerful, one of the reigning monarch's favorite comrades, and old enough to be the girl's _father_!  And _she_ was no more than an aspiring artist of an orphan, who was more perilously fair than dawn at the sea but so very, very young.  How ridiculous, how unbelievably preposterous, for him to even begin to think that he could ever be with her – he, who was scarred and maimed beyond restoration, and she, who was the most beautiful creature that he had ever seen.

But all that _he_ could think was, _How incredible._

There was still a long journey ahead of them – their tale was not at its end yet.  They had a long way to go before they could finally reach out and claim their freedom.  However, as long as they were together…  Somehow, they would come through it all.

So he prayed.

He looked back down at the girl whom he held close to him, both arms around her as she leaned against him, sleeping peacefully.  They had left Paris late the night before, towards the end of the masque ball, and she was exhausted.  

Seeing her as she dreamed reminded him of all the other times that he had watched her in the night: when he had tended her during her illness in her first days at his castle, when they had been on their way by sea to Italy and Milan, when she had fallen asleep near to him after both of them had barely escaped fiery deaths…  

He remembered that last night vividly.  In it, he had finally realized just how much he cared for her – and just to what lengths he would go to be with her always.  He hadn't slept all that night; she didn't know that, and he would not probably tell her for a very long time, but the truth remained.  He had been too fixated, too enchanted, by her very presence to take his eyes from her.

Their carriage rumbled on over the uneven, dusty dirt road that would eventually take them back to his castle, away from Paris, as the deep forest passed them by, and the early gray light of dawn began to grow in the sky.  

Night was passing; day now came.  

At length, she stirred within his arms, and he smiled down into her face when she breathed in deeply – contentedly – and finally let her green eyes flicker open.  Then she smiled back at him, blissful and sleepy, just beginning to wake up.

"Mmm…where are we?" she murmured, snuggling her head against his chest, as if she really didn't want to leave whatever dream world she had just been in.

"On the road just past Troyes," he told her, gently. "On our way home."

Her face lit up at his mention of that word.  

"_Le Chateau de Rêves_?" she inquired, eagerly, and he nodded, laughing softly at her excitement.  

"Yes, _ma petite_," he replied, grinning, "Yes, _le Chateau de Rêves_ – home, if you will…although that is _not_ our final destination."

Clarice's smile broadened to match his, and her emerald green eyes sparkled, for she knew well what he had meant by that – they may be returning to the castle named, but one day in the not-so-distant future, their road would lead to a quite different place, a location depicted in the tapestry from Spain, which told the tale of the Irish hero Fionn Mac Cumhail and his fairy wife Saeve, and their son Oisin…

But, as for now…they were going home.

Leaning back against him once more and burying her head in his strong, protecting shoulder, she murmured, as a wave of complete, contented, warm happiness assailed her, "Anywhere with you."

"Anywhere in the _world_, Princess." was the whispered reply.

Lifting her head again, she looked up at him, her gaze scrutinizing and amused.

"Am I your princess?" she asked, and he regarded her silently, gravely for a moment, his yellow eyes unreadable from behind the mask.  Then, he reached out and gently touched her cheek with his fingertips, brushing against it with the lightness and dexterity of a butterfly's wing.  A long, solemn, tender moment passed in the carriage between the two.  Then…

"Yes." he said: speaking as if he were making a vow. "You always were."   

And then, still gazing into her eyes, he moved his fingers from her cheek to her chin, ever-so-delicately tipping it up and back, compelling her to move her head closer to his, and kissed her.  

Clarice's eyes slipped closed, and she felt herself submerged in the wonderful world of his kiss, her hands moving to encircle him within her embrace.  Erik's lips were soft and tender, surprisingly velvety, and everything about their touch captured her completely.  His kiss was warm and comforting as a homecoming, fresh and exhilarating as the sun shining upon the white, untouched snow of an undiscovered, rugged mountain range, fiery and intense and passionate as the deserts of the Far East.  

It made her feel both strong and weak, wise and untried, ancient and eternally young, and she knew that all her hopes, dreams, and longings were summed up in this man, who was dearer to her than life itself.

There was complete stillness in the air for a long while then, and the only words that were spoken were those that were in their hearts, not said by the voice or the tongue, but by the beating of their hearts and the strength of their embrace.  When they broke, finally, Clarice found herself wrapped up in his arms, pulled to him longingly, almost desperately, as if he feared that she would slip away and leave him, like a dream in the night, were he to let go.

"You are my princess." he whispered, his voice husky and ardent. "You always were, and you are.  _And you always will be_."

And how she believed him…

*                       *                       *

In the shadowy mists of the early autumn dawn, the carriage rolled to a stop in the middle of the road.  Its two occupants, resting safely in one another's arms, felt that its regular forward motion had stopped, and, almost unknowingly, both tensed in confusion.

Why had they stopped?

Then, from the driver's seat atop the carriage, "Milord."

Swiftly, Erik glanced at Clarice, his yellow eyes looking at her with a frown darkening their golden depths, his lips firming into a straight, thin line, and told her, "It's nothing, in all likeliness.  Stay here."

Confused and slightly afraid, the girl simply nodded: her own green eyes bereft of all emotion and light, leaving them blank.  Mastering his conflicting premonitions about the scene that was now before him, Erik opened the door of the carriage and stepped out onto the step, hanging off the wooden frame by one hand.  He was about to reply to the driver's summons when he saw something…and it was something that froze the blood within his veins.

The driver wasn't there.

And behind the carriage, the footmen were also gone.

The hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle, icy-hot.

_What is going on?_

Around him, the dusty road was completely empty but for a few stones scattered here and there, and the ruts left by the passage of many other carriages, wagons, and the like.  The forest was dark, enshrouded in mist – and suddenly very threatening.  His yellow eyes now scanned it with apprehension and guardedness; and he suddenly knew—

_Something was very, very wrong._

The next moment was a blur of frenzied movement: Erik whirled around, reacting in the nick of time, catching by the wrist the hooded man who was in the act of attempting to stab him between the shoulder blades with a glittering, ivory-hilted dagger.  With his free hand, upon which he wore the heavy, chunky gold ring that bore the insignia of the d'Auberie house, he dealt his assailant a rough, hard blow to the temple, which sent the man reeling backwards to fall to the ground, unconscious.  

Erik leapt down from the step after him, snatching up the fallen thug's weapon in a split second, and looked up.

By then, the roadside around him was bristling with more dark, hooded figures.  They were all brandishing very different, very deadly weapons, and they were all slowly advancing on him.  And they were all just about to taste his wrath.

Erik slammed the door to the carriage and stood with his back to it – whoever wanted to get to it would have to go through him first.

And it seemed that they were ready to hazard just this.

Pandemonium broke out.  He was attacked on all sides by hooded brigands, who fought furiously and savagely, pressing in on him with a will to win.  One after another he fell, finally attaining the sword from one of them in the process.  Thus enabled, he whirled about, slashing with the blade and using both his hands and feet to drive back his attackers.  Devastating uppercut to one man's jaw here, parry and then lunge with the sword there; lash out with a booted foot here, duck to avoid decapitation there.  

On and on it went, but for every man that he defeated, two more seemed to spring up to take his place.  Then, he heard a furious, terror-stricken female scream from the other side of the carriage, behind him.

"_Erik_!"

_NO!_

Two thugs had found their way in through the door on the other side of the carriage, unbeknownst to him as he fought his current assailants, and now they were dragging a struggling Clarice across the road and towards the woods, as she fought against them with teeth, nails, and feet, striking out in every possible way.  With a burst of energy brought on by sheer rage, he lunged out of the circle of men around him, trying to get to her.

"_Clarice_!"

But then someone tackled him from behind.  A wordless cry of extreme fury and desperation escaping him, Erik went down, borne to the ground by the weight of his attacker, his sword flying out of his hand and out of his reach.  Then, there, in the middle of the dusty road, he grappled with the hooded man who had sprung upon him.  Noiselessly, they both strived to gain the upper hand, and then the man pulled out a gleaming dagger, pushing it down – down – down, until it came perilously close to Erik's eye.  If he moved but a fraction of an inch the wrong way, if his grip on the man's wrist slid but a little – he could already feel the cold silver blade against the fringe of his eyelashes, nicking against them.  Again, Clarice's cry: "Erik!  Let me _go_!  _Erik_!"

There was no time to think.  Only time to react.

His hand groped in the dust, blindly searching – and finally he found what he was looking for.  A rock.

The man with the dagger felt his prey's arm slip out from underneath him, and then all he saw was a flash of blinding white light, and darkness.

Erik shoved the body of his assailant off of himself and rolled to the side, reclaiming his sword, and vaulted to his feet, then took off running towards the place where he had last seen Clarice.  Her capturers had dragged her into the woods; evidence of her struggle was there, in torn grass and snapped branches.  

From within the trees, "Erik!"

"Clarice!  _I'm coming_!"

Thud.

Attacked from behind again.  Only this time, his assailant had had the presence of mind to grab him around the ankles and pull, causing him to fall backwards and down to the ground, the wind knocked clean out of his lungs, blackness welling in the corners of his vision.  Pain stabbed into his chest as he tried to breathe; his surroundings seemed to whirl around him, the world looked as if it was bucking like an angered wild stallion.  Pain pain pain.  Agony at the knowledge of…

"Defeat."

_No.  No no no no no.  No, this cannot be.  No.  No no no…_

Two highly polished, gleaming leather boots appeared on the ground just in front of his face, and Erik knew that he was expected to look up, to turn his head to the sky – to his far-superior, gloating captor – and look like the helpless, hapless prey that he was.  

_Never!_

But even if he didn't look up and directly see the person who now stood before him, he couldn't keep the image of the face that belonged to that voice from invading his mind.  That arrogant, reptilian, cold, mocking, pseudo-urbane, smooth and slick as an oil-spill voice—

"It's over, you pathetic fool.  You should have known better than to fight – you've escaped us these last few times, but now the day of reckoning…_has come_.  Your past has caught up to you, and now it demands to exact the debt that you owe.  It's _over_."

Rough hands coming around his arms, pulling him up from the ground, forcing him to stand, revealing to him the horror that he now stood in the midst of: a ring of glaring, menacing hooded men, completely surrounding him.  A flash of light gray…

_Oh no…_

Clarice.  They had Clarice.

Suddenly, the owner of the voice that had spoken to him stepped forward, a hand coming up to clamp around his chin, forcing him to turn his head.  Cold yellow eyes that burned with a fire of pure, inexhaustible hatred met the steely frigidness of gray eyes, and the two worst enemies in all of Renaissance Europe met, boring into each other.

Erik, the Count d'Auberie.

Armand, the Marquis de Mercier.

From her position between her two guards, Clarice stared in utter frozen terror and helplessness, to the place across the road from her where the man she cared for the most, and the man that she hated the most, stood facing one another in silence.  She watched as the Marquis pulled back, his reptilian gray eyes never leaving his nemesis, and gloated at him, reveling in his success.  

They'd lost, he crowed: all of their evasions had been for naught, they were captured – they were his, and their mission was a shambles.  Then, he crossed the road and grabbed her by the arm.

His touch was cold and stony, like that of a marble statue, and loathsome as the vilest rodent.  Clarice writhed and struggled against him as he tried to pull her forward; she heard Erik give a wordless cry of rage, and then the Marquis's hand swept into the air, stiffening in preparation to give a blow.  She turned her head aside, waiting – and then she heard the arrogant young nobleman's voice, raised in high exultation and barely veiled threat as he called to his enemy, the Count.

"She's quite lovely, Erik – even _I_ really have to admit that; but don't you think that she would look somewhat _less_ appealing if she was to gain a mottled, swollen purple mark somewhere on that pretty face?  Move again, _trollop_," he suddenly snarled directly into her face, eyes flashing an icy gray fire, "and I'll make _certain_ that you receive the proper pains for it!"

Then, to Erik again, "I thank you, my friend, for procuring the last piece of the puzzle for us – I am certain that it will prove to be _very helpful_!  'Tis only too unfortunate that you will never see the fruits of your and this little wanton's efforts come to fruition."  

And to his men, "To horse – we leave directly." 

To a huge, brawny thug, with a jerk of his head towards her, his cold hand still gripping her arm with the clasp of steel, "You, take her.  I won't have her running off and deserting us before our lovely little game truly begins."

And he smiled at her, cruelly and maliciously.

Clarice felt the ground turn to water beneath her feet.

The thug swept her up onto his mount, a looming draft horse of some sort, and she found herself held so tightly that she could not even move, much less struggle.  She was captured, they were lost – and there was nothing to be done about it.

She watched as the Marquis turned, leaving her…and moved towards Erik.

There was something in his hand.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion.  Bile rose in the back of her throat and she felt paralyzed with horror and powerlessness, icy needles pricking all of her skin—

" 'Tis only too unfortunate." murmured the Marquis.

_Slash._

Erik looked helplessly, almost in shocked disbelief, into the cold gray eyes of his worst enemy, then down to his stomach, _as the Marquis's hand left the silver hilt of the dagger that he had just plunged into his defenseless enemy_.  

Slowly, as one in a waking nightmare, he moved his own hands down to the silver hilt, touching it with fingertips that began to tremble…as blood: thick, scarlet blood, began to stream down his skin, staining his white silken shirt.

Erik fell to his knees, unable to move, to think, to do or say anything, his vision blurring, becoming darker – darker, and the Marquis left him there, in the middle of the road.  Rendered paralyzed by shock and the agony that was beginning to grow in his being, spreading from his torso to each and every part of his body, he simply stared at the ground, struggling to breathe.  

Then there was a thundering commotion of horse hooves on the road, galloping past him and enveloping him in a choking dust there in the dawn.

He heard a ragged, wild voice of a young girl driven mad by grief, and it was calling out his name, over and over in hysterical despair: "Erik – Erik, _no_!  _Erik_!"

Further and further away it went.

Then, one final time, "_ERIK_!"

Silence.

_It's over._

Wracked with the tremors that were brought on by shock, his lips going blue and his skin a deadly, ashen white, Erik remained upright for a moment longer, and then let himself slump to the ground, his eyes slipping closed as the blackness overwhelmed him.

Nothingness. 

*                       *                       *

A/N:  Now, if I may quote the spectacular example of 1980's filmmaking, the Princess Bride – "The eels don't get her at this time.  Now I wanted you to know this, because you were starting to look nervous."  Or something to that effect.  (Jeez, I've been watching the movie ever since I was three, and I still can't get the lines exactly right?  WOW)  So, like the Grandfather said, don't look so perturbed.  The Marquis hasn't gotten Erik yet.  I said "Nothingness"…but that, my friends, is a world different than "The End".  R&r, and the final chapters of this story will be up soon!

@{---------------------


	19. Torment

A/N:  Hehehe, and you all thought that I wouldn't be back with the ending for weeks!  Well, I'm not that mean.  Not all of the time, at last.  ^_~ Things get a bit dark here, but have no fear – good will triumph over evil!  *sits back down after jumping out of her chair in dramatic gusto, as Frodo, Erik, Spike, and Orandor eye her a bit warily*  Knock it off you guys.  

**CapturedHeart**:  Thank you for the tip on italics – I must indeed watch for using them too much, but it's somewhat unavoidable in this particular story, seeing as how I employ italics when they tell stories and all that jazz…  Clarice's skin – well, let's just say she was wearing powder, which made it look less tanned.  It just seemed to fit in the moment.  Or perhaps her skin just randomly gets lighter and darker…I dunno…

**Riene**:  Yes, I am an infuriating author, and proud of it, m'dear!  But perhaps you'll forgive me the cliffhanger now that I'm back to wrap things up.  It's kind of a must, because I won't be able to access the web very easily after this Monday, when I'm being packed out of my house.  Yikes.  May the fates have mercy on my poor little life.  

**Rosethorn**:  Hey there!  Glad to hear that Gavin's still alive (and hopefully behaving).  I pray that he didn't annoy your friend Cassandra too much however…hehehe.  Oh, and he gets to play a part in the end of this story for a bit, if you're interested to know…

**Cheler**:  Well, thank you for that!  I'm glad to hear that you think my writing's awesome, even if I am almost about to make you go crazy.  Hope this helps things a bit.  ^_^

**All Mighty Terrestrial**:  Actually, I _have_ thought about getting all three of the stories I've written so far of this series published…haven't gotten very far in doing so yet, but I'm working on it…  As for Miracle Max… *grins* Well, I guess in this case, _I'll_ just have to play Max!  Let's see how _that_ goes… 

And now for something completely different.

Chapter Eighteen –

Torment

 "Skye!" her dream self called.  

A deep, dark forest full of twisted, threatening trees surrounded her, closing her within its black depths, only the faintest bits of strangled light showing through the treetops, as the wind howled around her, tearing at her and shrieking the worst thoughts – threats, fears, and hopelessness – into her ears.  Sobbing, she ran through the trees, trying to find a way out, but for every step she took, the distance grew, and she always came back to the same spot.  

_No way out…no way out…!_

Loneliness and grief overwhelmed her, and she fell to her knees, burying her tear-streaked face in her freezing cold hands, sobbing anew with fresh, hot tears that stung her skin like a thousand burning needles.  She cried for the past, and for the present, and for the future that now loomed before her.  She cried for her prince, and she cried for herself.  She cried for a world that would one day be without fairy tales.  She cried for him.  "Skye!"

The howling darkness wrapped around her then, choking her – she could not breathe, it was crushing her, it was so close: so hot, oh help!—

Cold.

Waves crashing; gulls crying.  Wind blowing.  She was cold – so cold.  _Where am I?_  So cold – so silent, so alone.

So _alone_.

"Erik…"

And then, with the choking sob of a terrified, grief-stricken seventeen-year-old girl who had just seen her one and greatest love mortally injured before her eyes, Clarice jerked back into consciousness and opened her eyes, gasping in the air and staring then at the surface that she had been lying upon.  

It was a dingy, gray stone floor, and it was very cold.

The air that she now had in her lungs was dank and stale, and smelled faintly of sea-brine and damp hay, and stagnant water.  The smell of a prison…

And she tore her eyes from the stony floor, looking up with a painful gasp at her surroundings.  Four stone walls were all around her, and in one of them was a thick wooden door, bolted and bound with dull iron.  In another – the wall that was opposite the one with the door – was a huge, open window with sharp, spiky steel making up its frame.  In the corner behind her was a pile of wet, graying straw, a wooden bucket of some sort sitting next to it.  

But Clarice only briefly noticed this.  Her mind was on that window.

Compelling her muscles to harness their own strengths, she forced herself to stand although bruises innumerable, all about her body, cried out in protest at her movement.  She ignored this – she _had_ to see out that window.  She made it three steps across the room before her knees buckled, causing her to stumble as her surroundings spun about her.  Blindly putting one hand out, she sought the wall's support and leaned against it, closing her eyes and willing for the pain in her head to go away.  She was trying to remember what had happened.

It came back to her in a rush.

A horrible picture of menacing hooded men swarming all around her, cruel, rough hands tearing at her arms, imprisoning her and cutting off all escape that she might have, the Marquis de Mercier's gloating, arrogant face, a dagger gleaming silver and cold in the early morning sun, stabbing her love—

_Erik!_

From then on, the picture was less clear.  She had been borne away from the side of the one she loved, leaving him wounded and in pain in the middle of the dusty, deserted road just outside the French city of Troyes – blood streaming, staining white silk…  Struggling vainly against her guard, a barking command to halt, the Marquis's cold gray eyes glaring into hers, promising vengeance for the trouble she had caused, then pain, as a hand clamped onto her face, and an awful, bitter explosion of burning revulsion as some incredibly foul liquid was forced into her mouth, poured down her throat, then total, sweet oblivion.

Until the nightmares came.

In them, she saw her love murdered again and again – sometimes, she was Clarice, and her beloved was Erik, and their destroyer was the Marquis de Mercier, who stabbed him in the stomach and then turned away, laughing coldly and triumphantly as his helpless prey fell slowly to his knees, doubled over against the pain.  Sometimes she was the Elven Princess, watching as her Prince Skye was surrounded and tortured cruelly by huge, leering goblins.  But in each of those worlds, she left those visions with the same knowledge – and that was that she and her love had been forever severed from one another, and darkness had fallen.

She went to the window.  She looked out.

There was the sea – gray-green and turbulent, waves tossing a spray of churning white foam up into the wind, which howled around the corners of the great, stony ruins of the fortress that stretched out in either direction of the window's view.  Below her was a sheer drop from the window down to the sea, spanning a distance of hundreds of feet.  The very height of her perch caused Clarice to be dizzy again, and she fell against the wall on one side of the window, taking her eyes from the terrible, awe-inspiring sight.  Where had they taken her?

She was here…alone…and he was not with her.  

He never would be again.

Burying her face in her hands again, she placed her back against the wall and slowly slid down to the ground, collapsing in a heap of torn, listless gray rags that had once been a fine silk gown.  Her hair had long come loose from its sleek knot at the nape of her neck, which had been 'just the size of my two fists!', Erik had once laughingly commented upon seeing her the morning that they had left Paris together, alone but for their carriage driver and footmen.  Now, it streamed tangled, dirty, and limp in clumps and strands around her shoulders and face, a stark inky darkness against the incredible pallor of her ghostly face, out of which looked a pair of large, hopeless green eyes with sunken rings of tiredness, grief, and despondency around them.

She wept again.

Her tears had not spent themselves – no, they had only abated themselves for a short while, until something caused them to flow again as she sat alone in her stony prison – when there was a sound of hollow, determined click of footsteps coming down the stone floor outside of her cell, and then the noise of keys jangling, and the door's lock turning, swinging it open.

"So, the little captive's awakened, I see!" called out a familiar, loathsome voice dripping with arrogance and exultation, leering at her and refusing to allow her escape it.

Clarice did not move.  She did not look up.

There was movement in the doorway; the figure that stood there had shifted position and now came forward, a pair of water-sodden leather boots coming into her line of vision as she glared coldly at the floor, still obstinately refusing to lift her head.  

A pause.

"Well, I can see that your past few days of confinement haven't served to sweeten that sour little temper of yours, lovely," the Marquis commented in mocking disapproval; he was silent a moment, considering, and then he abruptly reached forward and once more grabbed her chin on one hand, forcing her to look up at him, into his cruel gray eyes.  Clarice's own eyes flashed sparks of emerald fire at him, smoldering with her silent, festering rage, and he laughed deep in his throat, seeming satisfied at her anger.  

"You really_ did_ hold him quite dear in your little maiden heart, _didn't_ you?" he taunted her, maliciously. "He was the earth and sky to you, wasn't he?  Having him was both this life and eternity for you.  You would have walked from here to the ends of the earth for him, only to see him be mowed down like the pathetic, insignificant field pest that he was – and now your heart has been broken, never to be mended."

His mocking words bored into her head, becoming a rattling, whirling commotion within her brain, growing hot and loud.  _Earth and sky – having him was life and eternity – you would have walked from here to the ends of the earth – for him – pathetic – insignificant – he was—!_

And then, knowing full well what she was doing, she lunged out of her crumpled position beside the wall and flew at him, eyes burning like those of a ghoul and nails bared, seeking to scratch the very eyes out of his face.

"You…_monster_!"

Armand was unprepared for her assault, and so he was momentarily taken off guard by her assault; however, he was taller and stronger than her, though not nearly so tall or strong as some other men, but even at that, it was enough for him to very quickly overpower her, grabbing both of her slender wrists in his hands, and throw her roughly off of him, and onto the stone floor.  He continued to hold her down, even as she fought like a cat: biting and writhing and scratching and kicking, which gave him quite a bit of trouble, angering him all the more.  He pulled back one arm, briefly releasing her arm, and, swiping it down through the air—

Thwack.

Clarice lay silent.

Gray eyes burning with rage and humiliation – for never had he been so effectively impeded in his will by anyone, and a seventeen-year-old girl at that! – he placed his hand back on her wrist, kneeling on the floor and pinning her there.  

Through the blur of grief and anger that threatened to overwhelm her vision, Clarice noticed that this Marquis looked very much different from the one that she had last seen.  His face was drawn and pale, and there were dark rings under his eyes as well, making his features seem haggard.  His normally sleek, impeccable low ponytail of dark brown hair had somehow come undone, and now his hair hung in sweaty, disgusting strands about his face.  Even his clothing seemed somehow altered – no longer was it fine and without a crease or stain to mar it; no, now it was torn and dirty, as wrinkled and limp as her own.  

What on earth was _this_ supposed to mean?

Before she could think any more on that, her enemy's voice broke into her consciousness.  Snarling at her, his rank breath spilling onto her face and causing her to want to turn away and gag, he said, "Now _that_ was out of line, my pretty little captive!  If _I_ were you and I wished to live, I would not act in such an unseemly manner again!"

"And what if I don't _want_ to live?" she hissed back at him, with effort.

Armand's gray eyes gleamed coldly – heartlessly, and his lips twisted into a fiendish, inhuman smile that was almost more of a leer than anything else.

"You don't want to live?  Surprising words for a well-bred and well-brought-up young lady of the court!  Well, milady, that may be arranged for you – but only _after_ we have finished our business with you.  For, you see, all of his talk about that jewel was mostly true: there _is_ a jewel, and _I_ intend to find it.  But there never was any ancient feud between to rival families – oh yes, he told you that, _didn't_ he?  What a delicious lie for the man who told you that he cared for you more than anything else, the same man whom you love with an utter, undying devotion, a passion!  No, there never was any feud, and he wanted that jewel for quite a different reason…for the same reason that he wanted _you_!"

Leaving her stunned with those words, he released her and stood, slowly backing away until he had reached the doorway.  There, he turned and gestured to a large, shadowy, hulking figure that awaited his command in the corridor just outside.  Clarice's eyes widened as that figured approached her: it wasn't anything about the form itself that caused her so much fright, but what it bore in its hands.  All thought of what the Marquis had just told her flew away.

She began to scramble away on her hands and knees, until her back came to meet the wall, her fingers scrabbling like that of a madwoman, trying to somehow rend stone from stone and make for herself an escape.  But there was no escape.  She was trapped.

Still, the figure came towards her.

And from the door, the laughing voice of the Marquis.

"So here we are, Mlle. Boisvert – he is safely out of the way, once and for all, and we have you here, to do as we wish with you until you either cooperate with us, or choose the alternate route of your only other option…although I do not think that suicide will be an easy way to death for you, in this place!"

His laughter welled up in her mind and she closed her eyes, ceasing to struggle as the shadowy figure knelt before her and brought forth its one weapon: a clear glass vial full of a shimmering green liquid that seemed to glow in the dimness of the cell.  Clarice felt the cold, numb bliss of shock set in, washing in waves over her consciousness, and waited for the total blackness of oblivion to claim her once more, but it did not come.  Instead, there was a prick of white-hot pain on the inside of her elbow, and then that pain grew and climbed up her arm, through her veins like so much devouring, heedless fire—

And all she could do was lie helpless as that laughter surrounded her, deafening her with its volume and inescapability, and scream.

_I know you're out there – wherever you are, come and HELP ME!_

*                       *                       *

It was cold.  Cold, and silent, and empty.

He had failed – failed what?  He had been on a quest of some sort; he had made a vow – a vow to do _what_ though?  He couldn't remember.  It was all to foggy – there was too much pain, too much exhaustion and pain and bitter grief for him to think, to remember…what was it? _What was it?_

'Do not fear…yours is not a destiny to always be alone…'

The shimmering, androgynous voice called to him out of the void of unconsciousness, and life coursed through his veins once more; no, perhaps not life, but an awareness of reality, consciousness itself.  And suddenly he remembered.

His eyes flying open, he jerked back into the tangible world.

Armand had said he had failed, but that was not true.  It could not be true – not while life yet remained in him.  Injured, he was, perhaps: but he had been injured before, and gravely, at that, and he had lived.  He had lived, and it had not been the end then.

It was not the end now.

That dagger, however…

Well, it would be painful, but something had to be done about the hunk of metal that jutted out of his stomach, stabbed into his body at a point in the exact middle of his torso, just below where his ribcage ended and his diaphragm began.  He sat up, trying to be careful and slow about the whole ordeal, but a fresh gush of thick, warm blood came anyway as soon as he had lifted himself off of the ground.  He gritted his teeth, tensing throughout his body.

This was _really_ going to hurt.

Birds roosting in the nearby trees were startled into flight by the ragged, inhuman cry of agony that suddenly tore through the forest, and he slumped back onto the ground, pressing his sweat-streaked face into the dew-soaked grass and moaning with pain.  So, was this how destiny was going to find him – lying face-down in the middle of nowhere, defeated as any lowly, base army of rebellious peasants who had attempted to make battle against a fully-armored cavalry, arrayed in steel and trained in the art of war?  

_Let it never be!_

The silver dagger dropped to the ground, there to be forever forgotten.  With trembling, unsteady hands, he tore a long strip of cloth from his cloak and cautiously, gently tied it around the gaping slash of a wound in his torso, hoping that it would staunch the flow of blood enough to keep him from losing so much of it that he would be rendered unconscious again.  

He had a mission to complete now, and he would not accept defeat.  

Standing on his feet once again, he looked to the northeast: the direction that his attackers and his beloved had gone in when he had last seen them.  A dark, thick layer of churning, tumultuous clouds had begun to well there, in the sky above the treetops.  Already, a cold, thin wind was beginning to tear at the forest, whistling towards and around him.  

A storm was coming.

He was resolute, determined.

_Princess, I'm coming. _

Suddenly, a queer, buzzing tingle went through his head, momentarily dulling his senses, and he reeled on his feet for a moment.  But not for an instant after it had passed did he think that it had come from his wound; instead, he lifted one hand and put it to his ear, his fingertips cautiously, delicately, going to touch the suddenly feverish skin of that particular body part.

A convulsive shudder of dawning knowledge passed through him.

_Oh no._

_It's begun._

*                       *                       *

A/N:  Something odd is stirring in the air – something very strange is happening wherever Clarice is right now, and somehow, Erik knows it.  How is this possible?  What can all these bizarre occurrences mean?  What on earth does the Marquis want Clarice for?  And how will Erik ever reach her in time – if that's even possible, bar by the aid of magic, which doesn't seem all that likely…  Wish to find out?  Read on!

(Oh, and if you r&r, it won't be such an awful thing… *Orlando and Arin give their most charming, swoon worthy grins*)   


	20. Impending Doom

A/N:  Dear lords of Dernhire, what's _this_?  Something very odd is happening to Clarice's captors right before her very eyes – and it is definitely not pretty…will Erik be able to come to the rescue?

Chapter Nineteen –

Impending Doom

There was indeed a jewel.

There always had been a jewel.

Long ago, it had been stolen from its rightful owners, and the ruins of an ancient Celtic fortress somewhere along the coast of Ireland, at the towering Cliffs of Moher, had become its hiding place.  But the thieves that had taken the jewel had been much too clever to simply leave it there with just any simple kind of means to remind themselves of where it had been placed; no, that would have proved much too easy a case for the would-be finders of the lost gem!  No, a much more intricate and thought-provoking map – really more of a gigantic trap – had to be laid…

And so, the thieves had come up with this solution: they would create an entire set of artwork that would lead them back to the jewel, should they forget as they were sometimes wont to do.  There would be several pieces in all, and the first would be a painting, which would have clues in it that led to a second painting, which would lead to a statue, and thence on to a mirror, and then a tapestry, and then…the jewel.

But this jewel wasn't just any jewel.

To be sure, this was easily seen by the thing's mere appearance.  As large as the curled-up fist of an average-sized woman, it was huge but surprisingly light: its colour was the most glorious, light-filled yellow-gold of the sun's liquid rays that pierced through rain clouds on a spring afternoon.  It wasn't simply a jewel, however – it was a necklace, with that great golden gem as its crowning element.  Dazzling, sparkling loops of diamonds made up a shining crescent of starlight that fastened around the wearer's neck lightly, effortlessly.

This jewel, named the_ Mahat-Marandas_, was part of a story that had been set into action many years before, by a chain of bizarre events…

A story that would prove to be a marriage of fantasy and reality, horror and wonder, tragedy and bliss…a story that began with the words, _Once upon a time…_

*                       *                       *

It began at dawn one morning.  The door of her cell swung open, and Clarice looked up, in half-aware confusion, to the door.  In it stood two figures, both cloaked and hooded, their faces and bodies completely hidden.  One of them beckoned to her.  

"Up…_sss_…_girl_." it said.  She was rendered unable to move by sudden shock and fear, which brought her fully to reality and out of her uneasy sleep, upon hearing the voice issuing out of the shadows beneath the hood.  

Had he just _hissed_ at her?

When she showed no alacrity in responding to the command given to her, the figure who had spoken made a sharp gesture to his companion, and both came forward, advancing on her with hands that were wrapped in filthy rags outstretched…  

Clarice shrank back against the wall, a shriek fluttering up in her throat but never coming out, her only noise a feeble, terrified whimper.  Blackness welled in the corners of her eyes, and she felt a pressing urge to succumb to the watery feeling in her knees, but she refused to surrender to it.  _I will not faint!  I will not fall on my face in fright before them!  I will NOT!_

The two cloaked figures that had been sent to retrieve her reached down and took hold of both her arms, hauling her to her feet.  Then, together, they escorted her out of her prison cell, taking her – at long last – into the castle beyond.  Clarice noted her surroundings with apprehension as they walked: everywhere about her, she saw the rank, crumbling, decaying remains of what had once been a fine Celtic fortress.  The walls were blackened with age and soot, smoking torches that glowed a sullen orange placed in sconces all down the length of them, and the stone floor looked as if it was slick in places with mold, while water dripped incessantly from somewhere far off down the corridor, echoing against the stones.  

All was dark and foreboding, and from somewhere up ahead of her, a draft of air came – but it was not _fresh air_.  No, instead it was incredibly foul and putrid, and almost warm, as if it came from the nostrils of a huge slumbering dragon.  More like an ogre – she had always thought better of dragons.

On and on they walked, and finally she saw a dim glow of light coming from up ahead: a deep red hue, so intense that it reminded her of one thing…  

_Of blood._

A freezing, awful sensation passed through her then, and caused her to stiffen between her two guards.  

Taking this for a balking at their will, the two tightened their grasp on her, as she inhaled sharply with pain: their hands were cold, and so sharp!  Almost dragging her along with them, they brought her nearer, nearer, nearer to that awful, blood-red light, and suddenly, a room materialized before them: a huge audience chamber of sorts, with a vaulted ceiling that towered above the stone floor, gigantic gaps in it all over the place, caused by years of disuse and ill-attendance.  Beams of hazy white light fell in through them, striking the floor and washing the room in a mix of light and shadow.  

Thick stone pillars that reminded her of elephant's legs in their height and breadth stood along the walls, at the doors, garishly carved with horrible, cruel, bloody scenes of war and conquest.  Clarice quickly turned her eyes away from these…

And was met by an infinitely more unnerving sight! 

There was a huge raised platform at one end of the room, opposite the huge pair of double doors that led into it, and upon it had been set a dark, cruel-looking throne of sorts.  No more than thirty paces to its right was another platform, more of a dais, since it was smaller, and upon rested a pedestal.  A shaft of light from the broken ceiling fell full upon the top of this, and she could barely make out that something about the size of a dinner plate but not quite as thick rested upon its smooth surface.  But to the left of the throne was the thing that filled her with a dire, gnawing dread and terror.

An altar-like stone structure, about which had been thrown garlands of some wilted, black flower, the smell of which was like rotting peat, stood on yet a third dais, with torches set in brass stands on all four of its sides.  Yet another cloaked and hooded figure, this one all in black, stood next to it, silent…and waiting.

Clarice could feel herself writhing in her revulsion and fear.

It was then that she realized that there were more of those cloaked and hooded figures about the room; indeed, almost the exact number of the Marquis's men were there, all silent and motionless, seeming – however – to watch her as she was brought forcefully into the room.  

Dragging her across the floor, the two guards approached the throne on the dais and suddenly knelt in a deep, reverent bow before it, compelling her to drop to her knees along with them as well.  She had barely had the time to wonder what – or whom – it was that they were bowing to, when a velvety, mocking, all-too-familiar laugh issued out of the darkness in the depths of the throne, and suddenly a cloak-swathed figure materialized within it.

Her green eyes narrowed, in absolute hatred and loathing.

Armand leaned forward, continuing to laugh that same, deep-throated, victorious laugh, and she felt his gaze fixed on her.

"Very well done indeed, my lady!  A most convincing and moving display of dramatic flair!  I _applaud_ you.  However," and his voice became all the more sinister as cruel, twisted, manipulative amusement joined with threat bled into its tone, "it is _now_ my duty to tell you that the games are over – this morn, you shall assist us in ending a trial that should have been dealt with long ago."

He leaned back in his throne, waving a gloved hand at his minions who stood nearby.

"Take her away."

Clarice found herself surrounded by several more of the ghastly figures, who wordlessly turned her about and began to lead her from the room.

But as they did so, she heard the Marquis's voice call after her.

"Your eyes betray your thoughts, pretty one – how long ago, they ask?"

A pause full of diabolical exultation.

"Seventeen years this month."

Then she was taken from the chamber.

*                       *                       *

The ancient ceremonies of the bloodthirsty, evil Druids of Ireland could have been no more horrifying, no more depraved and morbid, than the scene that now conspired in the audience chamber of the old castle at the Cliffs of Moher.

A heavy, potent cloud of what might have been termed as a kind of foul incense hung on the air, giving to it a kind of mind-numbing haze, while torches burned all about the room.  The dais upon which rested the altar, with all of its streaming black garlands, had been prepared for its occupant, while across the room, the object that lay atop the pedestal occasionally gave off a bright, strangely light-filled flash.

Then the action began.

A small, pale figure of a young maiden – a slender girl with pure white skin and a wealth of ebony hair that had been allowed to fall freely down her back and over her shoulders, mingling with the thin, wispy black silk of her Greek goddess-style gown – was brought into the room from one side, hauled along by her cloaked and hooded captors.  A hideous music began then: drums, some deep and some more hollow, that were beaten, rhythmic and sinister.  The girl was led to the throne that was on one end of the room, and someone made a gesture.  

Immediately, the drums stopped, as a menacing, dark figure rose from the throne and came down the steps of the dais towards her, slowly advancing on her.

Then, a voice spoke.

"For seventeen years, we have wandered this contemptible, worthless husk of a world: bound to it by the magic of the _ss'elfynsor Shazrat_* that followed us here, who closed our portal to the realm from whence we came.  For seventeen years, we have searched far and wide for the object of our search, knowing that we might only be returned to our home – our world – by the reunion and then annihilation of the accursed _Mahat-Marandas_ and its bearer.  And now, at long last…we have found her."

The figure suddenly whirled on her, and Clarice felt the chilling sensation that a gleaming grin of pure malice and evil had been cast upon her.

"You think that you are the human-child Clarice Boisvert.  You have been raised to believe that you are an orphan from your earliest days, a foundling of your house…but now we have come to tell you the truth.  For, child, _you_ are no more of this world than _we_."

Then, a hand reached up from within the depths of the dark cloak that he wore, and, laying hold of the hem of its hood, the figure revealed himself at last, the mass of fabric that had obscured his form for so long dropping to the ground, a huge shadow.  Around her, she heard the other figures doing the same, but her eyes could not leave the form before her.

And now she pulled back in horror.

For what she now saw before her was not human – but _monster_! 

Upon a base of four scorpion-like legs rested the upper half of the body, which could almost pass for human-like, but for the two pairs of arms that sprouted from and below the shoulders, and the ridge of jagged, razor-sharp spines that went down the creature's back.  The hands had but four fingers to each of them, but all grew out to a length of nine inches, ending in the needlepoints of talons!  The thing's entire hide was of a dark, mottled red-black colour, thick and rough, like to the skin of a reptile, and its head – its head was, perhaps, the most horrifying aspect of its entire appearance.  

Strands of tangled black hair fell from the dome of the skull, reaching down to the creature's shoulder blades.  Its face was terrible with twisted features: gleaming yellow eyes with black pupils like those of a cat, a nose with wide, flaring nostrils, and a wide, long mouth that smirked openly, exulting in her horror and fear, revealing the long white snake fangs that lay within its maw.  And from those monstrous lips issued the voice of none other than Armand, the Marquis de Mercier…_or the being whom she had thought was the Marquis de Mercier…_

Gloating at her, the monster let her see him fully before he spoke again – and when he did, his words cut deep, biting into her soul, into her very mind.

"Not quite what you were expecting, is it?  Quite a wonder though, you must admit – everything that you'd ever seen in your worst nightmares come true.  Now you see, pretty one, that when you called me a 'monster', you weren't _entirely_ incorrect.  However, I – and most of my kind – like to know ourselves by a slightly different name."

The gleaming smile broadened, dripping fangs shining.

"Goblins.  Of course, not all goblins are as well endowed as I.  You see Grog, and his companion, over there, by the doors?" he continued, in a deadly conversational tone, motioning vaguely at the hulking shapes of the two creatures that he had just mentioned by name.  "They are of a different kind of our species.  They are Lower Goblins, which are chiefly employed – and allowed to live – because of their sheer brute strength.  What paltry defense could hold up against such massive force, such indomitable stubbornness?  Not many.  Now, I am a Higher Goblin – I and my kind are more cunning, more tenacious and intelligent than our fellows…we are not only able to employ ourselves with more deadly force, but we can also think with the minds of our foes, namely humans and all those like them…"

By now, he had come down the steps to her, scorpion-like legs tapping hollowly against the stone, and his last words were breathed directly into her ears.  Then he stepped away, turning from her and going into the center of the room, continuing to speak proudly.

"Oh yes, little beauty, we are _very_ real.  If you wish, any one of us could reach out and _pinch_ you," How his voice made her shiver as he said that! "We could do so at this very moment, and then you would have no doubts.  Yes, we are more real than you could have imagined, until this day.  And yet, it is _your_ _imagination_ that allows you to know us for what we are – everything that you have ever conjured up in your mind is real.  You wished for someone from a fairy tale to come alive, and find you, and now it has happened – we, the goblins, live!  And, unfortunately, your wonderful Prince Skye won't get to you until it's too late!"

And he began to laugh in mad, hysterical triumph.

She couldn't move.

It was all real.  

Everything that she had ever imagined – the goblins, the very fabric of her fairy tale itself – was real, living.  She couldn't deny what she saw: this was reality; she was awake and cognizant of all that was going on around her.  

It was real.  

She had not been drugged, and she was not walking in the midst of some awful nightmare.  She had seen the evidence of the goblins' transformation from the human glamour that they had taken on in order to fool her – to fool the world, back to their true forms.  This was not a nasty nightmare.

It was _real_.

And now his voice broke back into her mind.

"Take the girl…" he said, and shot his loathsome, gloating smile directly into her eyes, purely enjoying every moment of his triumph. "And place her on the human sacrificial stone – the _Mahat-Marandas_ will only reveal her for what she _truly_ is if her blood is properly spilt."

_No – NO!  This can't be happening!  Think, Clarice – think!  You've got to get out of this!  You've got to get out!_

She was paralyzed only for a moment longer.

Then, she did the only sensible thing to do, in a situation like this one.

She gave her captors a terrible time of it.

Armand – or rather, the creature that had once taken on the name of Armand, and the title of the Marquis de Mercier – watched from the stairs for a few moments longer, disgust written across his Higher Goblin features as his lackeys, some of the Lower Goblins under his authority, struggled to propel the struggling maiden across the room.  _Never leave a hulking brute to do an intelligent being's job,_ he thought in revulsion to himself, and leaped down off of the dais, crossing the room within a split second to grab the girl's arm in one of his four hands.  Snarling at his cowed minions, he said, "Out of the way, you mindless idiots!  I will finish this today if I have to do it _myself_!"

They backed swiftly away from him as he hauled the girl along after him, towards the wide, tall stone block that awaited her.  As they went, he muttered to himself so savagely in what could only be his own tongue – the language of the Higher Goblins, she bemusedly thought – that she was rendered completely powerless to resist his strength.  Every part of her being screaming at her to fight back, to run, to somehow get herself out of this horrible place and now, she found herself pushed up the steps towards the altar.  

Her legs gave out, conveniently, at the last moment before he would have placed her on the altar, and she fell gratefully to the ground, her back against the stone.  Armand fixed her with his fulminating, terrifying gaze and hissed, "_Get up_."

"No." she said, her voice flat and willful.

The cat-like yellow eyes glowed with fire.

"_Get up!_" he repeated.

Clarice turned her emotionless, unperturbed, emerald green eyes on him.  All fear had left her.  Whatever this goblin – this _thing_ – wanted of her, he wasn't going to get it with any sort of ease.  He had taken her love from her, imprisoned and tormented her, and now he expected that she was going to simply give in to her fear and let him win?  _NEVER!_

The goblin had raised his arm, talons extending, and he was about to deal her a savage blow when there was a sudden commotion of clattering, roughshod and hobnailed boots, and another goblin – clearly a mix between a Higher and Lower goblin, for it was rather small and scrawny in build, and not seemingly all that intelligent – came darting into the room, shrilling, "Khazan Ahrmant!  _Khazan Ahrmant_*!"

Her tormentor stopped his arm mid-swing and whirled around, eyes blazing and teeth bared in rage towards this intrusion.  "_What_?" he snarled.

The panic-stricken creature performed a hasty, clumsy, half-forgotten kneeling bow and then stood, babbling, "He is here – he has come!  The _Shazrat quar elfynsor_*!  _He is here_!"

Clarice saw that the swarthy, knotted cords of muscles in the Higher Goblin's back suddenly and quite visibly tensed; disbelief and fury radiated off of him.

"_Shazrat quar elfynsor_?" he breathed, speaking in a tone almost too low for anyone but her to hear, and even then she was straining her ears.  "It cannot – it _cannot_ be!  He met his death in the pale dawn, in the cold of merciless autumn's morning…it is impossible!"

Abruptly: commandingly then, with a fine veneer of smooth, oil slick suavity and calm, "Very well.  If the _Shazrat Sh'eesye quar elfynsor_ wishes to meet with his age-old enemies and look upon his princess once more, he shall be permitted!  Bring him!"

The little goblin shook with a violent tremor, seeming terrified, then turned and bolted off across the floor, clattering away over the stones yet again.  His superior did not turn back towards her, but she did not have to hear from him what had come to pass—

Erik – whom the goblins knew as '_Shazrat Sh'eesye_' – had come.

*                       *                       *

A/N:  Goblins!  And Erik makes his appearance at last…what could possibly happen now?  The answer to that question?  _A lot._  This is the story of Erik and Clarice, after all.  _Nothing is impossible…_

*  _ss'elfynsor _Shazrat – royal Elven Prince

*  _Khazan Ahrmant_ – Captain Ahrmant 

*  _Shazrat quar elfynsor_ – Prince of Elves, sometimes also phrased with the additional word Sh'eesye, which is how the goblins say Skye's name in their tongue.


	21. Elves and Goblins

A/N:  See the chapter title?  Have any guess about what's going to happen now?  One word:  FUN!  Elves – whee!  *runs off to huggle Legolas…or is it Arin?  The two just look so darn alike, you really can't tell without looking closely…* Anywho.  

Chapter Twenty – 

Elves and Goblins

The goblins must have already admitted him into the castle when the messenger had come to tell his master of their guest's arrival, or else he had been caught somewhere inside of it, for not a moment after the announcement of his presence, two gigantic Lower Goblins came lumbering in through the audience's chamber's main doors.  Clarice's mind was whirling.  Erik was here – here, in the same land, the same castle, as she: here, not in France, alive, not dead!  The goblins were real; all that she had imagined was real.

And somehow, _she_ was a part of it…

She looked up, around the figure of the goblin that had once been Armand, the Marquis de Mercier, and saw the pair of goblins, and the smaller figure that they held between the two of them.  It was the figure of a man, tall and slender, yet broad-shouldered and strong, wearing a startling black mask, with pale skin, jet-black hair, and a blood-stained, tattered white silk shirt, in chains…

Armand, or rather, _Ahrmant_, gave a sudden laugh.

"Well well!" he said, stepping down off of the dais, leaving her behind him to approach the two goblins and their captive, who stood silent and motionless between them. "This is a great surprise indeed!  A true _shazrat quar elfynsor_, the greatest enemy that the goblins – Higher and Lower – have ever yet known!  And you had the sense to come dressed for the occasion: complete with chains…although I rather think, _old man_," a mocking tribute to what was now the strange and distant past, "That _fire_ suited you better."

Erik did not reply.  Instead, his golden eyes searched past Ahrmant's hideous figure, finally lighting on Clarice again.  She could barely contain her raging emotions.  He was alive, and standing before her, but he did not look well at all.  He was exceedingly pale and seemed to be wracked with pain, although he gave no concrete evidence of this.  How had he found her?  How had he managed to come all the way from France to the place where they now were, and why were the goblins calling him such strange things?  _What did it all mean?_

Meanwhile, Ahrmant was gloatingly continuing.

"You just missed an explanation of the different species of goblins, _ss'elfynsor Shazrat_," he said, "But I _am_ surprised that you are here to listen to anything that we say at all.  I would have liked to think that I had had done with you for once and for all."

"I made a _vow_, Ahrmant."

Erik's voice was low and controlled, but the light in his eyes was deadly – challenging.  As if stung by the invisible venom of his nemesis's words, Ahrmant visibly cringed for a split second – a fleeting moment, and no more – then his arm flashed out and grabbed Clarice, pulling her to her feet and making her stand before him, between him and his enemy, and his two guards.  Clarice gazed into the eyes of her wounded beloved, willing to die a thousand deaths at the hands of their cruel captors if only she could be at his side, and hold him in her arms, and kiss him, once more – if only for a moment—!

But then Ahrmant's voice hissed next to her ear, "Indeed – you _did_ make a vow!  But _I_ made something even deeper: something even more deadly, if broken, and something even more impossible to surmount!  Do you remember, _Shazrat Sh'eesye_?  Can you recall the words?  For I remember them with the clearness of the white-hot devouring tongues of fire…"

Holding her against him, the goblin leader began to intone…

_'With this curse I smite you, with this destiny I bind you: you are doomed to wander this earth and unable to leave it as we, henceforth bereft of your powers of magic and enchantment, banned from your true self, in search of her until the flame of your existence extinguishes from the long years of your life…'_

Then, to Erik, "You know the rest." A shove on her arm.  "Tell her.  _Tell_ her."

And her beloved's despairing, sad, tired eyes turned upon her, their golden depths darkened by grief, pain, and hopelessness.

"I'm sorry that I didn't tell you before, dear one," he said, softly. "I am sorry that I took so long to find you, and I am sorry that I couldn't save you from this." 

He closed his eyes, fighting a wave of agony. 

"All that he has said…is true.  Not only is all that you have ever imagined of fairy tales _real_, it has been with you, in your life, and in your destiny, all along.  There never were two feuding families, sweetest of my heart…but once upon a time, many years ago, there was a baby princess, and a band of marauding goblins…and a prince, who had vowed to rescue her and bring her back to her own land, to her parents, if he must die in doing so."

Then a wave of snickering, howling, and cackling laughter rippled through the entire audience chamber, as he looked at her wordlessly, and she stared back at him, frozen.  Ahrmant's cutting laughter sounded above all the rest, and he spoke to her, saying, "So, now you see – isn't it all too sweet?  He's lied to you all along: he never told you the truth of who you really are…of who _he_ was!  You may have had the best of intentions, you _fool_," he said, turning to Erik, who stood still, facing him emotionlessly, "But they won't serve to save you, or her now.  I intend on watching you die this time – and I will enjoy each slow moment of it.  Bid your princess farewell, for this day, not only your blood but _hers_ as well will be spilt!"

Again, the room filled with laughter.

Erik looked to her, his gaze sad and tender.  She looked back at him.

"Forgive me, my love – I wanted to save you…_us_…I tried…but time was something that we never had, and it was what we most needed."

"A lovely goodbye indeed," croaked Ahrmant mockingly, pulling Clarice away from Erik, inexorably, "But now it is time, my enemy, to face the darkness."

At a gesture from their captain, the two goblins began to pull Erik away.  Clarice tried to yank herself away, out of her captor's grip, but she didn't get far.  Ahrmant began to drag her back towards the altar.  "No – Erik!  No!"

"Clarice!" came his voice, desperate and ragged. "Beloved, listen to me – _listen to me_!  The only way that I could have known you was by your knowing of your own story—"

Ahrmant suddenly released her, rounding on Erik, releasing her.  She fell to the steps of the dais, stunned, hardly knowing if she could believe what she was hearing.

"What is this?  Take him away!  _NOW_!" shrieked the goblin.

_My own story?_

_For seventeen years, we have wandered this contemptible, worthless husk of a world: bound to it by the magic of the ss'elfynsor Shazrat* that followed us here, who closed our portal to the realm from whence we came.  _

_For seventeen years, we have searched far and wide for the object of our search, knowing that we might only be returned to our home – our world – by the reunion and then annihilation of the accursed Mahat-Marandas and its bearer.  And now, at long last…we have found her._

_Forgive me, my love – I wanted to save you…us…I tried…but time was something that we never had, and it was what we most needed._

_…the truth of who you really are…of who he was!_

"And although my magic is impossibly bound in this world, _yours_ is not!  My love, you must finish the story – you _know_ it!  Finish the story – you _must_!"

"_SILENCE_!" screamed Ahrmant.  His talons flashed out in the bright morning sun that pierced through the gaps in the roof, and Clarice saw his arm fall towards Erik – there was a dull thud and the sickening noise of breaking porcelain as the goblin broke the mask on Erik's face.  And, for once, in all the time that she had been with him and witnessed him receiving an injury, Erik reacted violently – he screamed in pain.

Then there was silence.

Each and every one of the goblins was staring, stunned, at the fallen prisoner.

No one was watching her.

But _he_ was.  His eyes met hers, desperately, pleadingly.

And now, at last, she knew what she must do.

*                       *                       *

No one realized what the black-gowned, slender girl was doing until it was too late.  By the time that they had all whirled around and spotted her, she had already thrown herself off of the dais and was making a mad dash across the room, towards the _other_ platform—

The one on which the pedestal stood.

Ahrmant's cat-like eyes widened as he suddenly saw what disaster was looming before him.  His mouth opened and his shriek was like that of the North Wind—

"_NOOOOOOO!_"

Clarice ran across the room, her heart pounding like the convulsions of an earthquake within her chest, her lungs dying for air, her entire being unfeeling of anything but the sole knowledge that now occupied her mind: she _must_ reach that pedestal…

It all happened in a blur.

She stumbled onto the dais, nearly tripping on the hem of her thin black-silk gown, and fell up against the pedestal.  Then, as all the goblins in the room hurdled towards her, she took the pedestal's one occupant into her hands: its diamonds sparkled and gleamed like drops of liquid sunlight, while the huge golden-yellow gem in its center flashed a bright, knowing fire—

She placed the necklace around her neck, fastening it quickly—

*                       *                       *

A beam of light shot down through the roof, a perfect circle appearing within it as if some great knife blade had sliced through its crumbling remains, striking the surface of the dais and sending a blinding light into the air.  

The figure of the small, black-gowned girl was bathed in that light, and the black gown, the ebony hair, the pale skin and dark eyes, and features, disappeared as a vortex of twisting white and pale gold twin beams appeared, surrounding her.  Her form became blank, an outline of white, arms outstretched and head thrown backwards, her feet lifting off the ground as she began to spin, gracefully, with dizzying speed, in the air…

Ribbons of white appeared out of nowhere, twining about her arms and whisking up and around her legs, materializing into the pure, snowy flawlessness of a bodice, sleeves, and trailing skirts.  Her ebony hair lifted up off of her back and piled itself gently atop her head, jewels of citrine, beryl, and rose quartz appearing amidst its masses, as golden and silver sandals with the same jewels covered her bare feet.

At the sight of this dazzling spectacle, the goblins cowered, falling to the ground in absolute terror – for now, no one but a full-power, righteously vengeful _Elven princess_ stood before them!

Slowly, she drifted back to the ground, her skirts falling into place about her and trailing on the light-washed stones behind her.  Eyes averted demurely, in wisdom and serenity, to the ground, she gracefully, wordlessly, stepped forward, off of the dais.

Then, she lifted her gaze.

Instantly, two twin crescents of white-hot yellow light came forth from her eyes, shooting across the room and striking the pillars on its other end, cutting through them like a scimitar!  Her hands lifted – power shot out of her palms!

The goblins tried to run, but it was too late: they were all caught in the inescapable wave of power than washed over the room, sent forth by the white figure with the golden gem known as the _Mahat-Marandas_ upon her neck.  One by one, they were touched by the beams of light, and disintegrated with rough, hoarse, gabbling cries into shards of white and pale gold…

And then it was over.  The goblins were gone, and only the Princess and her Skye-Prince remained.  She ran to him and knelt at his side, wordless and tender.

*                       *                       *

A/N:  So…are we all _pleasantly_ surprised?  Erik and Clarice are really not all they seemed to be after all – and neither were the Marquis and all of his lackeys.  Elves and goblins.  Just as promised.  But it's not done yet – read on!


	22. Skye and OdessaGadriel

A/N:  I must now warn you, before you set off to read this chapter, there is a lengthy bit of explaining in here, and if you breeze over it, you probably won't be able to make a head or tales of it.  I'm working on it – do you know how hard it is to transform a realistic historical story into a complete _fantasy_?  Good lord, _HARD_!  But fun.  Oh well.  Enjoy!  (And if this totally confuses you, don't hesitate to let me know.  I'll figure out some way to make it clear, e-mail, or whatnot…)

Chapter Twenty-One – 

Skye and Odessa-Gadriel

His jet-black hair was plastered with sweat and grime, his skin deathly pale, with blood seeping through the cracks in his black porcelain mask, and everything about him was exhausted and haggard and ruined…but she knew that she had never seen anything more beautiful.

Without a word, she reached out with gentle hands and placed his head in her lap, where the darkness of his hair gleamed against the pure, glowing whiteness of her gown.  She gazed at him, tender and knowing: a shining, goddess-like being.  He was breathing, shallowly.  His chest barely moved, and the rest of his body was motionless.

"Oh, my Skye-Prince," she whispered.  She had never thought that that name could exist in reality to her – ever – but now…now, when she said it, felt it upon her lips…she knew that nothing else could be more perfectly, wholly true and real.

This was him…this was her.

She was the Princess of her own story, the lost child of an Elven king and queen who, somewhere, in a world that she had never known but in her own boundless imagination, really did exist.  

She was the Princess – and Erik, after all this time, was her Prince.

"Dearest of my heart…"

Leaning over him, she softly kissed his pallid lips, breathing air and life and healing into him: somehow, by some strange power that she now felt thriving within herself, a magic that she hadn't thought possible to have on this earth.

"I love you – _awaken, my Skye-Prince_…"

And his eyes fluttered open.

He looked up at her, a most extraordinary light coming into his gaze.

"Princess." he whispered.  Her words – her very confession of her love, at last – seemed to have restored him, for he sat up, with her help, his wounds disappearing, and they looked long at one another, seated there on the light-dappled stone floor of the ancient Celtic castle.

Finally, in the silence, their story became clear…

*                       *                       *

Once upon a time, there had indeed _really_ been a infant princess of Elvenkind, who was stolen away from her home and family by a band of wicked goblins.  

There had indeed _really_ been a prince who went after them, vowing to rescue her no matter what the cost.  But the story that came _after_ those early beginnings of the tale was all the more of a wonder.

_After Prince Skye had been surrounded by the goblins, he knew their minds: they would strike him down and then take the princess, and there would be no one to save here from them once this had come to pass.  He made a decision then: one which almost cost him his life.  Calling out a sundering spell in Elvish, he closed and shattered the magic portal that had led both the goblins and him into this strange new world, making it impossible for the goblins to return through it.  He also placed a binding spell upon them all, tying the goblins to the land and time that they were now in, so that they could not go any further with the princess.  _

_Infuriated, the goblin captain put a curse of his own on the Prince._

_"With this curse I smite you, with this destiny I bind you: you are doomed to wander this earth and unable to leave it as we, henceforth bereft of your powers of magic and enchantment, banned from your true self, in search of her until the flame of your existence extinguishes from the long years of your life…"_

_Immediately, Skye's magical powers left him, and the pointed tips of his Elven ears vanished, leaving him with the appearance of a mortal, but even at that, a perilously fair mortal.  _

_Then the goblin also put a spell on the princess, imprisoning all evidence and knowledge of her Elven heritage and her powers, which she would have learned to wield in time, within the gigantic golden jewel that she wore upon her neck: a gift from her adoring parents at birth.  Only by being reunited with the jewel would she ever regain her Elven appearance and powers – only the jewel could transform her back into what she truly was._

_Skye, however, was given a different fate concerning the breaking of his curse: he would either die after living out the years allotted to one of his race…or he must find her, the princess whom he had vowed to save, and fulfill his mission, therein regaining his own powers and Elven appearance._

_But the goblin captain knew exactly how to make certain that this never happened.  He blasted the prince in the face with goblin fire, burning him horribly.  Then, the remaining goblins ran off into the ether of the land that they were now trapped in for all of time, to hide themselves, the princess, and the jewel that held her powers within it.  Skye was left alone and mortally wounded._

_Contrary to the goblins' belief, though, he did not die of his hurts.  No, many long hours after they had left him in the midst of the destruction of the battle that they had all stumbled upon, he awakened to find himself in a strange new place.  The two people that were with him when he returned to consciousness told him that they were the Mother Superior and abbot of the nunnery that he was now being nursed within; they had mistaken him, he saw, for a wounded soldier of their own kind.  _

_'And why not?' he asked himself, bitterly, remembering how he had failed to rescue the helpless princess.  'For all intents and purposes, I am one of them now.  A mortal.'_

_But this was not true.  He still held within him the heightened senses of the Elves, and even though he could not use his powers, he had a talisman of his own world to aid him: a large golden ring that would give him any five hundred wishes that he could think of.  So, as soon as he had recovered, he set off into the world.  His once beautiful, Elven face was now scarred beyond recognition or the power of healing, and so he took to wearing a mask to hide it.  He wandered through that land, making his plans as he journeyed.  Somewhere within France, he would find the princess._

_And so, as long years went by, Skye left behind him the distant past of his life, his Elven ways, and even his name, creating for himself a new identity: using his wish-granting ring, he insinuated himself into the most powerful circles of the French society.  Skye was no more – no, now he was Erik Christian Laurent-Valeray d'Auberie, the Count d'Auberie._

_The goblins had also been mistaken in thinking that the jewel that held the princess's powers was the only thing that could reveal her for who and what she was.  Skye knew otherwise.  He would know the princess by the fact that, somewhere within her mind, the story of her own life – that of the goblins, her Elven parents, Prince Skye, everything – would exist.  She would know her own story, and by that, he would know her.  In the long years that passed, he searched all through France, looking for his lost princess, Odessa-Gadriel of the Elves…_

And now they had found one another.

Through goblins and thugs and prejudice and danger and mystery they had fought their way to one another's side, and he had known her for who and what she was, even though this had been far from easy.  

Desperate to rid themselves of her before the prince caught up with them once more, the goblins left the princess on the doorstep of a young French couple – Alain and Yvette Boisvert – who took her in as their own but died before much time had passed.  The baby girl had gone into the keeping of an aunt and uncle, who were really not her blood-kin, but did not know of the truth of her adoption.  

Meanwhile, the goblins also assumed human form to lurk in the background of France, watching and waiting, and their captain, Ahrmant, had soon become Skye's worst enemy at the court of France, under the guise of a handsome young nobleman who was known as the Marquis de Mercier.  He had done all that he could to keep Skye from discovering the map-puzzle that would lead him to the princess's jewel, the _Mahat-Marandas_, but he had not succeeded.  Skye found out about the puzzle and went to solve it, although he knew next to nothing about the legends and history of the mortals.  

And then, in an extraordinary twist of fate, he heard of the young niece of a certain merchant from Rouen, who was an incredible artist, coming up with incredible depictions of fairy tales…and _Elves_…

The masque ball at the _chateau d'Hautefort_ led to his first seeing her, and even then, he knew that she was the princess, without a doubt in his mind.  He brought her to him with an offer to help, and a promise of adventure, and as he came to know her better than anyone else, his feelings about her were justified: she knew the story of the Elven princess.  She was the one.  Clarice Boisvert was Odessa-Gadriel, Princess of the Elves.

And now they had found one another.

*                       *                       *

The girl who had once been Clarice Boisvert stood, extending her hand to him, a gentle, soft smile playing about her ruby lips.  Skye, no longer Erik or the Count d'Auberie, put his own hand into hers, and she helped him to his feet.  Once there, he stood unsteady and hesitant…but she put her arms about him, keeping him upright.  Regaining his sense of balance and straightening himself, he then looked at her.  

Golden eyes looked deep into emerald green, light and dark fusing into one seamless, tranquil, utterly beautiful blend.

"Princess…" he whispered again, and she recalled all of the times that he had called her by that title, insisting that – no matter _what_ the world may say – she was his princess: she always _had_ been his princess, and she always _would_ be.

How true it was; and _he_ was _her prince_.

Fingers moving to deftly, lovingly, tenderly caress her cheek, as if it was the wing of a delicate, timid butterfly, he gazed into her face, the light of her beauty shining forth from her as if she was a star taken human – no: _Elven_ – form.  The fairness of her face and form was all evidence of her true heritage, of her royal blood, and now she had the same pointed, leaf-shaped ears as he had.  

She was, without a doubt, a princess of a legend.

He took her in his arms, and she melted into his embrace.

"My Princess Odessa-Gadriel." 

Her name – _her real name_.  She felt as if, during all the years of her life, she had somehow known it, all along… 

"Dearest of my heart and soul, I love you as well – I love you more than anything, and I will not suffer myself another parting from you ever again.  Throughout all eternity, from this time forth, I am _yours_."

"As _I_ am _yours_!" she swore, passionately.

He stood away from her then, gathering both of her hands into his, both knowing and loving the familiar touch of her skin upon his.  The soft, gentle smile that she cherished so deeply curved his lips and his golden eyes shone with love…for _her_.

"Then come with me, my Princess – come with me, my love: let's go _home_."

And with that, he turned and led her forth from the silent chamber, and they left behind them the scene of what had been a horrible and yet wonderful moment for them both, walking slowly away – together – from thoughts of goblins and captivity and broken hearts, making their way towards the outdoors, towards the sky and the cliffs and the sea…

Towards the light.

*                       *                       *

The sun shone joyous, fresh, and brilliant upon the land that beautiful morning as Skye and Odessa-Gadriel made their way out of the ruins of the ancient fortress and out to the cliffs, Skye leading her along their edges by the hand, smiling at her uncontrollably every five seconds, he felt, unable to stop an enraptured grin from splitting his face.  

She smiled back every time, wordless with awe at her new self – she was the same, and yet incredibly _different_.  She couldn't help putting up her hand to her newly pointed ears with extreme frequency, marveling at the fact that she was not merely an Elf, but an Elf who was a princess at that!  She was Clarice, and yet she was not anymore.  She was Odessa-Gadriel.

Finally, they came to a rugged, rocky outcropping high atop the cliffs, and there Skye assisted her to climb up onto the very summit of the stones, one of his arms moving to encircle her waist as they balanced precariously together there.  His deep golden eyes were turned out to sea, fixing them with a gaze that was so incredibly searching and intense that she wondered what he could be seeing.  At length, she asked of him, "What is it, my love?"

Then he turned back to her, smiling down into her wondering face.

"Look and see, my Princess."

She did as he told her, gazing out at the sea, which was alight with flecks of the sun's rays in its deep, green-blue waters, over which the endless blue sky made a dome.  Somehow, she sensed that there was something very different in the air, a sensation that came from her powerful, newly restored attunement to the natural magic and enchantment of the Elves.  There was something out there: she could feel it…but as of yet, she could not see what it was.

Skye inclined his head to one side, so that he might have a better view of her half-averted face: her emerald eyes were distant and dreamy, he saw, and she seemed as if her mind had flown to a world far beyond that which they now saw before them, to a world where wondrous creatures such as the Pegasus, the wise winged ones existed alongside strange, beautiful peoples, like the Elves…

"What do you see?" he asked her.

Her gaze remained distant and searching, longing.

"I…I don't know – there's something there, but I can't see it…I can feel it, but my eyes have no vision before them but that of the sea and sky."

His smile became infinitely deeper, more tender and knowing, and he reached out, placing his hands on her shoulders, and whispered in her ear, against her hair.

"Ah yes, but you _can_, my love…"

She was still and silent for a moment longer, and suddenly, her mind cleared and she did indeed see it.  Lifting one hand, she stretched out her fingertips, towards the distant horizon, towards the sky itself, and she breathed, so softly that she could barely be heard, "Evyrworld…"

And before them materialized a large, oval-shaped picture of a beautiful, vibrant, exotic, living and breathing world: a land unlike any of those known to the inhabitants of France, England, Italy, Spain, Ireland, or any other country about them.  Shimmering with a sense of magic, of life, that seemed to sparkle almost tangibly on the air, the vision drifted just beyond them, as if it awaited them.

Odessa-Gadriel could not take her eyes off of it.  

She was spellbound by the beauty of the picture – by the inexorable summons, by the sense of homecoming, of longing, that washed over her in waves as she continued to look at it.  She felt Skye's warmth behind her and knew that he was gazing at it, just as enchanted and longing as she.

"How can we get to it?" she whispered.

"How do all fairy tales begin?" was his reply, in the form of a question.

She looked at the picture again, realization dawning on her in a wondrous burst of newfound knowledge and timeless memory.  _How do all fairy tales begin…?_

"Once upon a time."

The surface of the picture quivered and then the thin film of opalescent sparkles burst, like a bubble in the air; the scent of flowers unknown, of forests and wild, fresh air, and lands above and beyond their own, each filled with their own stories, peoples, creatures, and secrets, flowed out to greet them, curling like a playful, inviting breeze around the both of them: whisking about the skirts of her shining white gown and stirring his thick hair.  Sound and colour stood vivid and fantastic before them: _waiting…_

She turned to him, her emerald eyes knowing and filled with passion: passion for this, their newest adventure, for life, hers and his, conjoined as one, and for him.

Thoughtfully then, "Skye?"

"Yes?" he said, tenderly.

Still deeply pensive.  "We were only bound to be human – to be mortal – while we were in that world, while my powers and the knowledge of my heritage were bound within the _Mahat-Marandas_," gesturing to the yellow gem that rode, with its crest of diamonds, upon her flawless white throat, "and while you were separated from yours by an unfulfilled quest?"

He nodded, his smile becoming all the more brilliant as he saw, in her eyes, the reason behind that question.  

"Yes."

Then, Princess Odessa-Gadriel and Prince Skye stepped across the boundary that separated the mortal world from Evyrworld, the lands of legend and fairy tales – of _faery_ tales, really.  Faery tales, and Elven legends.  They looked back: only once more, for the final time, and then she turned her gaze up to him, to his face, and with hands that were gentle and loving, with a touch that was tender and passionate, she reached up and lifted off the nearly-shattered mask of black porcelain that had for so long hidden his face…

…And revealed, behind it, features that were completely healthy and whole, with skin as smooth and soft as a newborn infant's, lightly tanned with a tinge of gold, a pair of deeply golden eyes looking out from the midst of features that were high and fair, both wise and blissful.

Odessa-Gadriel smiled into the eyes of her lover.  Her Skye-Prince.

He reached out and took her in his arms, and kissed her there, high on the ramparts of Evyrworld's mountains in the heart of Elvendome, so that everything – all nature – could witness their love, the powerful shaping force of their hearts.  

For this is what had brought them from one world to the next, showing them that all stories, all adventures, trials, and all lives began with four simple and yet endlessly elusive and irresistible words.

_Once upon a time._

*                       *                       *


	23. Afterthoughts

– Afterthoughts –

"So, wait just a moment now – are you telling me that _that_ is how it ends?  Just like that, with the same words that it began?"

"That is how many stories are, you see.  They are an endless circle…where one ends, another begins, and there is never truly an _ending_, but always another _beginning_."

"Yes, but–but – I mean, come _along_ now!  That's no proper way to end a story."

"I don't see your meaning."  
"Oh have done – you know _exactly_ what I mean, you great old sphinx!  Whatever happened to them?  What of the Elven Princess Odessa-Gadriel and Prince Skye and their return to their world – of her reunion with her parents, and he with his?  And the fate of all their friends, Master and Lady Colbert, Chlöe and Fabrizio, her aunt Jacqueline?  What of them?  You can't say that the story doesn't tell!"

"I think I might be tempted.  But, have it your way – the past itself will suffice as evidence for this.

"Yes, Princess Odessa-Gadriel was reunited with her overjoyed parents soon after her return to Evyrworld, as was Prince Skye.  The Elven kingdom was completely awash with celebrations of the grandest sorts, for the lost Princess had at last been restored to her true home after seventeen long years of grief and fear and doubt.  And in time, talk of a royal gala wedding was begun at the capital by the sea.  You can only imagine how much fabric and other fluff was involved in that – and believe you me, stories of _that_ affair are still told in every corner of Elvendome.

"As for the Prince and Princess's dear mortal friends…well, that turned out to be a bit more of a surprise than anyone could have expected.  Skye and his Odessa-Gadriel returned through the magic portal to the other world, shortly after their wedding and honeymoon: three months or so past the fact, and sought out those exact people.  

"Fabrizio, they found engaged to be married to a very vivacious and quite pretty Italian _contessa_ from the merry southern region of that country.  Skye once more donned the mask, in order to hide the fact that he now bore no disfigurement, since it had left him after the breaking of his curse, but this mattered little in their time with the Duke and his intended.  They left Italy once more, having made some fast and firm new friends, and reasserted their bond with others.

"Then on they went to France, to the castle that had once belonged to the man known as the Count d'Auberie – and, by the way, did you catch the hidden meaning behind that name?"

"Hmm – what?"

"By the Three, boy, haven't you been listening to _anything_ that I've just been telling you?  You asked for the ending-beyond-the-ending of this tale, and now I'm giving it to you, so if you please, give me at least _part_ of your attention."

"Sorry."

"Good lords of Evyrworld…all right, the name d'Auberie – did you notice anything peculiar about it?"

"D'Auberie – it sounds much like _Aubrey_."

"Which means…?"

"Blond ruler…or ruler of the _Elves_."

"Interesting, no?  Skye was quite the wit, and there can be no doubt about that, even to this day.  But back to the story, however.

"Skye and Odessa-Gadriel returned to France and the Castle of Dreams, where they found Master Jean-Pierre and Lady Adele Colbert, and the princess's old girl-chum, Chlöe.  Since they were such good friends, and intimate, Skye and his princess-bride told the three their true story, and of their true identities, proving this by revealing their pointed Elven ears and removing Skye's mask.  Not wanting to be parted from their friends forever by such long periods and by the gap between Evyrworld and the other, no less!, they implored the three to come with them and live in the heart of Elvendome, with Skye, Odessa-Gadriel, and her parents, and all the other Elves.

"But this could not be done, they were told – for the three servants were not really just that; they were bound to this world by another sort of magic, one not too unlike that of the Elves and others like them.  So it was agreed that they would visit, from time to time, as friends, since neither the Count d'Auberie nor Clarice Boisvert existed any longer.  They had been careful to erase all evidence of their ever being in that world before leaving it for good.  Chlöe, however, soon proved herself too fond of her former mistress, the princess, to remain apart from her for long, and so she, of the trio, came to live in Elvendome with them."

"And Aunt Jacqueline?"

"Patience: I am coming to that.  After this had been dealt with, they turned their course towards the west of France, in order to complete the last part of their journey. 

"Jacqueline was shocked and surprised indeed when two fantastically-garbed, smiling strangers with the light of the sun shining in their faces appeared at her door one day.  Instinct and memory told her that these two were her niece and the Count d'Auberie, but sight essayed to prove otherwise.  Clarice and Erik, the Count, were no more, they joyously told her: they had all been a part of a strange and amazing fairy tale, and now that all darkness had been dispelled from their lives, they wanted for her to come and live with them in their castle in Elvendome.  

"Of course, Jacqueline was properly blown back by this, but eventually, she mastered her shock and disbelief, and happily came to live with them.  She was given an enthusiastic and _very_ warm welcome by the Elven King and Queen, and henceforth dwelt very contentedly and quietly at the seaside castle in the capital."

"Once again occupied with her embroidery?"

"But of course!  Although she also soon took up the art of crocheting tiny little booties for tiny little feet."

"They got busy carrying on the family-line, eh?  Small wonder, even if they _were_ more than a _few_ years apart in age."

"Stop up your insolent mouth, shameless whelp!  By the sovereign Three, are you _really_ my son?  And don't speak of the living as if they were made of nothing but the past."

"I'm sure they'll allow me pardon."

"Don't count on it – you might raise them to such ire that further visits to a certain Elvish school by a certain faery delegation will be strictly outlawed.  Now, is there anything else that you want to know, before my voice completely runs out?"

"Only where you got to be such a masterful storyteller, my lord Orandor."

At the sound of this third and new voice, the two figures of the faery-ruler and his son turned towards the door of the room, from whence the sally had come.  Within it stood the tall, proud figure of the Elven prince and the smaller, slender form of his lady wife.  The sarcasm-quipping son, one Gavin by name, looked slightly red about the ears.  Skye and Odessa-Gadriel merely laughed however, and Orandor bowed to the two of them, Gavin joining him.  When they straightened again, the faery-lord replied to his host's words.

"I have had many a thousand year to perfect my tale-spinning abilities, Prince Skye.  But perhaps the _truest_ story is left to be told by the heroes within it."

Skye grinned broadly, slipping an arm around his wife's petite waist, his hand resting lightly, caressing, over her hand, the fingers of which lay spread slightly over the slight, five-month-old slope of her stomach.  

"A story is a story, as long as it is told with the proper beginning and end…although they never really _end_, do they?"

Odessa-Gadriel smiled playfully at her husband.

"How could they _ever_?  Where would the world be left at if they did?"

"In sulfuric destruction and ruin." Gavin replied, with deadpan quickness.  

And then they all had to laugh, just for the pure pleasure of doing so, and Skye motioned elegantly for the two faeries to come along with them, to join in on the festivities for that night.  The four left the room in which they had just been standing, Gavin closing the door behind them: the book in which was held the story of the princess, the goblins, and her prince remaining with open pages on the floor of the book-lined chamber…

_Stories, tales, legends, myths…all one and the same, alike and yet not…_

_They are an endless circle…where one ends, another begins, and there is never truly an ending, but always another beginning._

*                       *                       *


	24. A preview of that which is to come

Introducing the fourth book in the Travelers of Enchantment Series –  

True Hate and True Love

Imagine: you are a faery-princess, who finds more enjoyment in swordplay, archery, horseback riding, adventuring, and reading dusty old ancient history tomes in the castle library than attending cotillions, discovering the so-called 'wonder' of makeup, and wearing the heavy, stifling metal-cages that have somehow been termed the tame appellation of _gowns_.  The problem with this?  Well, breeches and smelling of horses, sweat, and the outdoors aren't _exactly_ in the mod for appearances at court.

Now, combine this with your two closest friends: your slightly more cautious but still just as adventurous and sometimes impulsive 'nephew', who is actually three months older than you, and your fiery, audacious second-cousin, who is just as defiant – if not _more_ so – towards society as you.  Then, toss in the expectations of the entire faery court, your despairing mother, and some absolutely _wonky_ prophecy that was made about you some two thousand years ago!  

Even with the support of your understanding, wise father – the lord of all the faeries – _and_ the love of your mother and siblings, you are in for no summer afternoon picnic of it.

—~*~—

Elowyn is the wondrously fair but exceedingly tomboyish adopted daughter of the Lord Orandor and Lady Vahlada of the White Realm, and there is nothing more that she would rather do than escape convention and go chasing destiny in her own way.  However, she soon learns of a dark plan concerning an ancient prophecy that was made partly about her, and a terrifying, sinister figure enters her life, set upon either destroying her and all that she knows and loves, or having his own way with them…

In a race against time as evil begins to make its rise once more in the world of magic and enchantment, where anything is possible, Elowyn must make a strange, unholy alliance with an entity who may or may not be as dark as the secrets that he holds.  Unless they can somehow save this fantastic world, it will be entirely overwhelmed by looming evil…  Coming soon, this tale of darkness and light, romance, mystery, intrigue, betrayal, lies, adventure, complete with all the Travelers of Enchantment Series most beloved characters: faeries, elves, Sprytes, and more – hobnobs, Pings, eagles, unicorns, and vampyres, to name a few!  

Delve once again into the magic and enchantment of Evyrworld in…

Book IV of the Travelers of Enchantment Series:

True Hate and True Love

(To hit fanfiction.net sometime this summer.)          


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